Basketcase
by attica
Summary: DHr. “Is that really what makes you happy? Because I find that quite sad, relying on the failures of other people for your sick amusement when you can just look in the mirror every day and see the biggest failure in the world.” Oooh, BURN. Complete.
1. Bad Day Banshee

**Basketcase**

**By attica**

**Where:** Hermione is finical and So Deathly Frustrating! Draco plays guitar! There's mistletoe! Owls fall in love (for real)! Hogwarts has a newspaper! Dumbledore is a matchmaking sly old fox! Girls cry! Boys fight! There's snogging! There's hexing and snowball fights! And, most importantly, Draco and Hermione fall in love. Sort of.

**Disclaimer:** All the nonliving and living contents of Hogwarts and the wizarding world all belong to the brilliant J.K. Rowling. And the title of this fic, '_Basketcase_,' is a song from the infamous band Green Day, which of whom I am not in any way associated with. (However, the plot of this fic will not follow the lyrics and/or song.)

oooo

For **Joanne**, who is more awesome than she'll admit.

**(Entire fic Re-edited 6/06)**

oooo

**Bad Day Banshee**

Everyone has their own sad little quirks. That being said, from the start of this year, Hermione Granger had taken to getting up in the morning and walking over to her window, pushing aside the obscuring crimson curtains. She didn't know exactly how it began (for how do things truly being in the first place?), or where she had gotten the nonsensical habit from (then again, her parents were dentists, so – pssh), but there was always a bizarre urge to see what the weather was like, where she then dubbed it as the forecast for the day. It was silly, supremely silly for a girl of her mindset, but it was only one of her own harmless quirks and she needn't tell anyone why she did it, so it was really not a problem at all.

Now, living in the real world, there were a countless number of days when heavy storm clouds hovered overhead in the gloomy sky, and she thought of it as a day when nothing special occurred; just a normal day. How could one define a "normal day"? Like this: It would just be one of those days when cheerfulness would be at the stationary level, Malfoy's taunts and rude remarks at their usual biting tone, and the classes uneventful. And most of the time – surprisingly – she was right.

Though she wouldn't let it get to her head as anything special, she came to rely on her foretelling of the days just from a long peek outside her window. But not once had she mentioned such a thing to Harry, Ron, or even Ginny for she could make a sure bet on her life that they would only laugh at her – because, hey, and she wasn't denying it: it was a sad thing to do every day. And after already being labeled as Hogwarts' top bookworm (which was ill-meant more than it wasn't), and an uptight goody two shoes that would grow up to be the spitting image of Professor McGonagall, she didn't think she could stand another name. Or, considering the cruelty of some of her peers, she knew they would even start comparing her to loony Sibyll Trelawney, their odd Divinations professor — that was Hermione's greatest fear that she was afraid would arise if such a thing got out. Sooner or later, she figured, they might as well be asking her how many kids they will have in the future, or if some rich wizard will wed them, to which Hermione would then respond with by spitting in their drink.

But aside all of the possible consequences, being it the real world, there were stunning mornings as well as bad ones, and today was a stunning morning, despite the customary gloom. There was a light snowfall softly raining from the pale overcast sky, and below there were several inches of almost blindingly white snow blanketing the damp ground.

During the summer she had received an owl notifying her that she been appointed Head Girl, therefore being handed a number of responsibilities (and a really cool badge) in addition to her usual studies and schoolwork, not to mention her daily visits to the library. During the first couple of weeks it had been rather hectic and she was almost so close to losing her cool, what with the meetings, activities, planning, studying, and so forth. And though she had been utterly thrilled to be Head Girl, she had only realized what hard work it would be, for at the first meeting on the first day of their return from summer holiday, Dumbledore had announced all sorts of things to them, saying that there would be more dances and fun activities added into the past traditions. And that whole lot and more, of course, had to be planned by the Heads and prefects.

Hermione knew how much Dumbledore and the professors counted on them, so she got sort of maniacal and tried her best to do just as they expected and worked even harder to go beyond. This, of course, took more planning and even more work, and that earned her more than a few scornful looks and death threats from the prefects who had to work with her plans and even had to cancel their own plans on occasion. Oh, and not to forget, her insane determination had also earned more than enough foul and rude comments from the Head Boy, which, surprisingly and not-so-surprisingly at the same time, was the one and only Draco Malfoy, prince of all Pricks (the reigning king was his father, Lucius, but she was sure once he was dead the crown would pass on to him), for which reason she didn't think she could live if there were more than one of him.

_One is more than enough_, she exasperatedly thought.

It was no lie that the Slytherin, who was not even the least bit amiable when asked, disliked her and her friends a frighteningly vast amount and the whole Gryffindor House along with them. He had spent most of his time here to insult and bark at them, sending a few hexes every now and then when he was feeling special, and to make her feel like the lowest human being in the world. However, though she hated to admit it and would never to anyone's living face, he had succeeded a fair amount of times, but she had also retaliated (which she was sometimes proud of or ashamed, depending on her current moral standing) and wished that he were dead more than a handful amount of times.

Hermione shook her head at her thoughts. _That wasn't very nice_, she said to herself, mentally. But of course, he deserved more than he got, so she thought that she should be excused for her actions. She called it self-defense. Or uncontrollable – but deserved – acts of aggravation.

But there were times when she would look at him and couldn't help but wonder and ask herself why. She knew his father was nothing less of a bastard, but she didn't know why Draco himself seemed to be living up to the image of his father. She couldn't read minds (although sometimes she wished to) thus she never knew why Draco acted so cruelly to her and Ron, and most especially Harry. But she knew there had to be a reason — there was always a reason. And so, in her curiosity and intrigue, she had analyzed his behavior and replayed the past scenarios in her mind, trying to come up with a conclusion for his certain reason for acting such a git.

Surprisingly, she came up with quite a number. One was that he probably had a bad childhood, which was not so out of the question when his father was Lucius Malfoy, but Hermione got the feeling that there was more than that to the whole picture. She couldn't picture Lucius abusing Draco in anyway, though one would think so right away. After all, Lucius was classy and though he was a Death Eater, if he did abuse Draco, it would not be something daily or of usual manner. Maybe Draco had been hexed or cursed a few times by his father, and knowing that would be surprising, but then maybe she would suddenly understand Draco at least a bit, and then maybe her heart would also soften for him….

A picture of Draco being hexed by his father flashed in her mind, and Hermione, unknowingly, cringed.

Even the foulest human being on earth didn't deserve that sort of treatment.

'_Even Malfoy?_' a voice inside her head squeaked.

Hermione sighed again, looking out the window and at the snow. '_Yes, regrettably_,' she wearily told herself, although there was a small voice in her head that begged to differ.

Thinking of Draco Malfoy was hard on her mind and she knew trying to understand him was going to be even harder… but she had hoped this year – since he was Head Boy – that they'd come to some sort of agreement. She didn't expect anything near a friendship (Oh Merlin, who would ever?) for she was afraid that even if she did expect something as extravagant as that she'd keel over dead with disappointment, but at least something to a term where they acted at least civil towards each other, not shouting insults or fighting their rage to hex the other.

Needless to say, even her hopes had been too great.

oooo

Hermione entered through the vast oak doors, feeling nonchalantly content. She had a great deal of things to be content about, after all. She was having a good hair day, and she could expect a good load of coursework from her professors today (it was a sad thing to get happy about, undoubtedly, but again, Hermione didn't dwell on all of the sad things in her life). She looked around, spotting Harry and Ron at the Gryffindor table, and started walking towards them. She sat down in her usual seat between Harry and Ron with Ginny beaming at her in the seat across from hers.

"Morning, Hermione," Ginny greeted. "I take it you had a good night?" Harry flashed her a smile, and Ron predictably greeted her with his usual mouthful of egg.

"Yeah," Hermione replied, reached over for an apple. Her goblet filled itself with pumpkin juice as she looked up at Ginny. "How about you? Didn't stay up too late with Seamus, did you?" Hermione grinned at the young Weasley as the faint hint of a blush stole across her cheeks.

"No," she said. "We just did the studying bit and talked. Besides," Ginny shot her brother a look. "_Ronald_ was there. It wasn't as if we could do anything before he would drag Seamus away from me."

Ron snorted at this, hearing her comment, and Hermione laughed.

"Ginny, I told you I needed answers for our Potions assignment, and Dean was also in the common room, and God knows he's cleaned his act up and at least pays attention every now and then."

"Whereas," Hermione said to Ron, cutting in and giving him a look, "you don't."

Ron rolled his eyes. "In other matters: Hermione, where were _you_ last night? Not in the library, I hope," he dryly remarked. "Of course, it wouldn't be such a surprise if you were. I swear, sometimes I think you would marry the place if you could."

Hermione glared at him, swallowing as the juicy bits of apple slid down her throat. "I," she said sternly, "was spent last night, so I went to bed early. I told Harry," she said, biting into her apple again. "But I guess he'd have informed you very politely if you'd have asked, which you didn't, because you assumed right away."

Ron sighed. "Bed, library, same difference," he said.

"Hermione," Harry suddenly cut in. "Last night, after you went to bed, Dumbledore was looking for you."

Hermione's brow, as if on automatic, furrowed. "He was?" she asked, trying to remember if she had missed a meeting. She frantically searched her mind, trying to recall if there had been a scheduled meeting or if he had asked to talk with her after her classes. "Are you sure?"

"Well, he came to me, asking for you. I told him that you had already gone up to bed, so he just bid me goodnight and told me that he would just speak with you today."

"Did he say what exactly he had to talk to me about?" she asked, concerned.

Harry shook his head.

Hermione sighed again, biting her lip. '_What if it was important?'_ she asked herself in worry, slightly panicking. '_What if it was something really important, and he needed me to do something? And I was in bed, sleeping!'_ Hermione mentally smacked herself on the forehead. But, surely, if it were of significant importance, he would have sent Malfoy in to wake her up. Surely. And Malfoy, being Head Boy and obligated to certain duties, though begrudgingly, had to do it. Hermione felt slightly better at this. She silently let out another breath of air, shaking her head to clear her anxieties. She then absentmindedly bit into her apple, staring into space; unaware of the looks Harry and Ginny were sending her.

She didn't understand why she suddenly became paranoid about her duties. She distantly thought about the last few days and her slight panic attacks, unfocusedly gazing at the glare of her porcelain plate was sending out from the Great Hall's light. _'Maybe Malfoy was right,' _she dazedly thought._ ' Maybe being Head Girl is finally going to finish me off and send me off to St. Mungo's. By the end of this year, I wouldn't be surprised if I've finally cracked and gotten myself sent off to the loony bin. Of course, no one else would be so surprised, either.'_

Hermione frowned at this, biting into her apple again, chewing slowly.

Harry ended her endless stupor by shaking her, announcing that the meal was now over and pointed out that everyone was now filing out of the Great Hall. Hermione thanked Harry, feeling her face heat up from embarrassment, before she stood up and grabbed her book bag. Ginny was talking with her as they were walking in the corridor before Hermione remembered that she had clumsily left her Transfiguration book on the table. She halted and Ginny, suddenly noticing that she was walking alone, turned to look at her, curious as to why she'd suddenly stopped.

"I forgot my Transfiguration book!" she called out to her, as some passerby sent her curious looks.

"All right then. I'm going to go head on. I'll see you later!" the young Weasley yelled over the chatter. Hermione nodded and then turned, but let out a surprised shriek as she crashed into something solid, her face colliding with something warm for a quick second. She fell back, landing on the hard marble floor. Hermione's eyes were shut tightly as she felt agonizing, tinny shoots of pain rocketing up her body.

"Ow," she groaned aloud. Falling down on the exceptionally hard ground was not one of her talents. "Bloody floor," she grumbled, rubbing her bum. She then suddenly heard snickering and her eyes flew open to reveal a tall figure standing over her.

She felt ominous despair to see none other than Draco Malfoy positioned before her, looking down on her like a supercilious giant, for immediately her mind warned her that this could not end well. She was even more alarmed to see that he was alone. . . . She looked around, bewildered, curious to why it had quieted so suddenly.

She moaned inwardly in dreadful, unfortunate luck. She was going to be late. Everyone had already gone to their classes.

"What is your problem?" she snapped, staring up at him with distaste. He had an amused expression on his face, smirking down at her in all his pure-blood superiority. She could swear that expression had been plastered onto his face the moment he had left his mother's womb. Sometimes at random moments of recklessness and awe she even wondered whether he had any other expressions, but no, he had a fairly limited selection for his git face. That much was obvious.

"Aw, Granger," he tsked. "On the floor? Always knew you were meant for scrubbing the filth off of it. Thinking of considering the job? I rather think you were meant for it," he drawled. "You're well-equipped, and you've experience. Why not? Hogwarts is always in need of more janitorial staff."

Hermione scowled at him, her eyes flashing. She had clear view of a place that she could kick and send him into priceless agony. All she had to do, quite simply, was _kick_. Her foot twitched. "Malfoy, I don't have time for your insults, today, okay? As you can see," she motioned around the empty corridor, "we are late and therefore we will have points deducted from our Houses, and if McGonagall is feeling extra special, she'll give us detention."

Draco snorted, rolling his eyes. "Get up, Granger. As much as I like seeing you on the floor, considering the saying 'filth belongs with filth,' I don't want you staring up at me like that."

Hermione shot him a dangerous look, but did just as he said. She quickly stood, dusting off her robes, giving him a defiant look of daggers. But oddly, as her head spun from the fact that she had stood up far too quickly in an attempt to crush his superiority under her heel, in all of her annoyance, it was only now that she noticed how tall he had grown. With the dizzy diameter of her brain whirling around and trying to mentally steady herself, she realized that she had never noticed his height before, which was certainly strange since she had had her share of her encounters with him since September.

'_Has he always been this tall?'_ she wondered to herself, drifting away from the current situation. _'He's taller than both Harry and Ron….'_

"Merlin, stop daydreaming about me and listen. That's _disgusting_. As if I'd ever give you the time of day," she heard him spit out impatiently. She glowered at him, cursing at Malfoy and their unlucky circumstance.

"I was _not_ daydreaming about you," she hissed, revolted just by the thought. She wanted to gag. "Malfoy, though you insist on trying to convince yourself that every member of the female population in the school is bloody in love with you, I suggest you take a trip back to reality and shrink your ego."

Draco sneered. "Granger, I don't entertain the thought of dirty-bloods, most especially _you_, in love with me. Of course, it's flattering and I see why, but I only consider pure-bloods. I'd never disgrace myself by allowing a Mudblood in the line," he stated smugly.

Hermione's deep brown eyes glittered maliciously as she gripped her wand tightly in the pocket of her robe. "I'd _never_ be dim-witted or blind or deaf or mentally-impaired enough to fall in love with you, you evil, despicable, rude, loathsome, horrid excuse of a wizard," she hissed between clenched teeth.

Well done, Hermione Granger. Well done.

Draco's eyes darkened noticeably, his silver orbs now turning into a dark, steely gray. He appeared to have taken great offense from her words from her questioning his worth as a wizard. Of course, being that he didn't give a cat's nose about her, he didn't care about the latter. But when one began to insult a man's worth as a wizard… well, that was when trouble started brewing. Big trouble. Like, slap-her-and-tell-her-off kind of trouble, but Draco made it a point not to hit girls (though he didn't really consider Granger as one) because he just wasn't like that, on contrary to popular belief. "That's amusing, Mudblood. But before spitting out insults to me, I suggest you first look in the mirror," he snarled.

Hermione was taken aback, his words full of vindictive venom. Her eyes narrowed thinner and blazed brighter.

Hermione suddenly noticed how close he was now, his face barely an inch from hers. She could feel heat starting to emanate from her body, her anger bubbling and her muscles tensing alongside her bones. Her jaw was clenched tightly and she could feel her nails digging into the skin of her palm, prepared to suddenly draw out her wand if he was to try anything. _'Bring it on, Draco Malfoy,'_ she thought to herself, seething. _'I'll hex your face off, ferret.' _Because, seriously. Bring it.

Just then, in the middle of their glaring contest, trying to see who would intimidate whom and back down, and who could more certainly bring it more than the other, tension crackling between them like electric currents, they heard footsteps and a voice that caused the raging blood pounding through Hermione's veins to suddenly freeze over. And the words "Bring" and "it" ceased to matter.

"Mister Malfoy? Miss Granger? Might I ask what you're doing out here in the hall when the rest of your peers are in class?"

Her eyes widened as she realized who it was who had caught them, recognizing the voice. She instantly broke off her gaze with Draco as she looked behind him and flinched noticeably. Draco raised one pale brow at her, smirking, knowing just how much she hated to taint her perfect reputation.

They heard the footsteps get louder, nearing them, until a powder blue-robed Dumbledore was soon before them, curiously looking at the two. Draco put the usual impassive look on his face, appearing as if he was deathly bored and had done no wrong. It was his best defense, after all. His face.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at the sight of both of them alone, in a corridor, where the concept alone seemed terribly suspicious and odd. And as his eyes took in the scene before him, he realized that if he had not come along, the hall would've been bathed in flames and rubble if their wands even had the start to spew out hexes and curses. But he then noticed the close proximity of their bodies, and sent them a look of intrigue, one white brow hitching upwards. Hermione and Draco seemed to notice this and took a big step back at the same time.

Draco cleared his throat.

"I was only notifying her of our meeting after our classes today, Professor," Draco drawled.

Hermione's eyes widened at him, and then narrowed into slits. _'He was attacking me with insults!'_ she wanted to scream. '_Send him away in a small wooden crate and throw him in the ocean! Make him die and rot there until someone finds him drifting ashore across the world!'_

However, she decided to play along. She didn't want to ruin everything when Dumbledore seemed entirely convinced.

"Very well, then," Dumbledore said. Their headmaster looked at Hermione through his half-moon glasses, sending her a knowing look that made her look down to her feet in shame. "You are both late to your classes, but no matter, since it is of Head business. Inform your professor of your reason, and you should be excused of any point deduction or detention. However, Mister Malfoy, might I suggest that if you have to inform Miss Granger of anything in the future, to do it before or immediately after class. Another tardy like this… it seems sort of suspicious if it happens more than once, doesn't it?"

Hermione blushed a furious red and lowered her eyes, wanting to cower away in the darkest corner of the castle and do some sort of voodoo trick on her Slytherin adversary. Maybe amputate him or something. Something horrible and mean.

Very, _very_ horrible and mean.

Draco shot the headmaster a secretive glare, obvious disgust in his eyes.

"Mister Malfoy." Draco wiped the look off of his face the instant Dumbledore turned to him, though his lip still twitched uncomfortably in an unmistakable sneer. "Head to your class, and Miss Granger will be there shortly." Draco simply nodded and brushed past Hermione, but not before she caught the look he shot her. Hermione inwardly swore at him, wanting to grab a nearby torch and throw it at his head.

"Now, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said, turning to her. "I saw that this book was left in the Great Hall after the meal, and I looked over it to see that it was yours. I was aware that you needed this book for your class, so I decided to return it to you."

Hermione raised her eyes and saw that Dumbledore was handing her the Transfiguration book that she had left behind. She took it from him, giving him a polite smile. "Thank you, Professor," she said weakly, still clearly quite embarrassed. "I apologize for… my tardiness, and I assure you that it won't happen again."

Dumbledore smiled merrily. "I have no doubt, Miss Granger. You are clearly very hardworking and an exemplary student here at Hogwarts. I don't think one simple tardy will change any of that, by far. Now, head on to your class. Do as I told Mister Malfoy, and your professor will excuse you from any unfair punishment."

Hermione nodded, and bid him good day before turning and heading down the corridor.

She closed her eyes tightly, cursing at Malfoy for his ego and insufferable behavior. Of course, there was another squeaky thought that told her that he had saved them from possible punishment of serving detention – _together_ – and though that might have been somewhat true, she wasn't going to permit him the gratitude. He had saved them by _lying_. That didn't serve much credibility. Besides, he was still a git and she could have totally brought it had Dumbledore not come along. So, really, the thanks should go to Dumbledore, who had interfered before Hermione could have melted Draco Malfoy's face off with her super powers – er, wand.

"Making me late to class… I'll show him," Hermione grumbled under her breath, hitching up her book bag. Not to mention her bum still ached.

Hermione entered the classroom and got even angrier at the gasps of surprise for her "late" entrance. Quite clearly, everybody lived for drama. Even McGonagall's brows had hiked up underneath her hat as she came in, but Hermione explained and she simply nodded, excusing her to her seat. She took a seat next to Harry and Ron who were both giving her curious looks that she ignored, due to her mood. She looked like a banshee on a bad day.

Without thinking, she looked over at Draco, who was watching her. He was smirking and seemed to know that would infuriate her more – which it did – as she glowered at him and quickly turned away.

"Bloody Malfoy," she muttered to herself, hastily taking out her parchments and quill, and then opened her book to the assigned page.

oooo

After Transfiguration, as they were heading towards their next class, Charms, Harry and Ron asked Hermione if that really was her reason for being late. In return, Hermione only gave them an evocative scowl and hurried past, purposely giving Ron's foot a good stomp as she did so. Noticing her mood and that it was best for her not to be messed with, they decided not to talk to her until her temper had simmered down and Ron had checked his toes for any bleeding.

When classes had finally ended for the day, Hermione had at last collected her anger and annoyance and composed herself to look unruffled, even though everywhere she went, Draco Malfoy seemed to be there also, smirking at her and forcing her nerves to flare up nastily again.

"Nasty little brute," she muttered through her teeth.

Hermione excused herself from Harry, Ron, and Ginny, explaining that she had to look up a few things in the library. This was not entirely true, for she was simply trying to escape from the tortures of Malfoy and these damned school halls to a room where she could clear her thoughts in the silence and the comforting sight of books, and she would most likely be alone, with the exception of Madam Pince and a few wandering students. But as she slipped past the crowd and walked down the empty corridor towards the library, she wasn't aware of silver eyes following her as he, too, made his way to the library.

Hermione sighed in relief, a smile caressing her lips as she walked through the doors and was met with a refreshing silence. She looked around, feeling her heart slowly becoming unburdened and the knots in her temples begin to slowly rub away. What was it about the library that always seemed to calm her down? She could swear that the place had magical powers. And if it happened to actually have magical powers, then she wouldn't have been surprised at all. What could she say? She was believer.

She headed down the aisles of the books, aware that besides Madam Pince and herself, there was a bewildered-looking first year Hufflepuff boy staring up at a shelf. Poor boy almost looked like the shelf was going to eat him alive. Hermione raised an eyebrow at the scene before her, and then looked around before heading towards the lonely student.

"You look a bit confused," she said gently, and the small boy jumped from surprise. Hermione found herself flinching from his reaction. She hated surprising people. She gave him a soft smile. "Do you need help with finding a book? I certainly would love to help." Because Merlin knows she was perfectly capable to. Had she graduated already she could have rivaled Madam Pomfrey for her position as the Hogwarts librarian. After six and a half years, she knew the library like the back of her hand. (Which was kind of pathetic, if you thought about it really closely, but Hermione made it a point not to do that. Ever.)

The boy looked up at her fearfully, and she looked down at him kindly. "P-P-Potions," he whispered, shakily. "P-P-Professor Snape spoke to me today, d-during class, and told me that he was going to f-fail me if I don't do this assignment. I l-lost my Potions book and I need to borrow one from the library until my mum purchases another one and owls it to me." His voice cracked.

Hermione eyed him inquisitively, noticing the way he had looked down when he told her that he had lost his book. However, she nodded and looked up at the shelf, knowing that she couldn't refuse the chance of helping a fellow student in need. Especially this young boy. Her heart went out to him. It almost even appeared as if he had just suffered from a traumatic experience that would scar him for the rest of his yet unlived life. Of course, this wasn't a surprise. Snape was notorious for joyously handing out harrowing experiences. It was his hobby.

"You're in the right place," she said reassuringly, "and that's saying an awful lot; this library's a bit baffling, and a Potions book is always tough to find." The boy smiled up at her, and she politely smiled back before reaching over at a leather-bound spine that was labeled _Potions, Grade 1_ in silver lettering. She flipped through it quickly, making sure that it wasn't damaged. She handed it to him, smiling. "Here," she said. "This should get you through those torturous classes for now."

'Torturous' was an understatement. The boy still had five years to go in that class, and she thought it only right that she prayed that the Lord would have mercy on his poor soul. Snape would eat him alive. She knew it. He knew it. It was a mutual understanding sort of thing.

The boy beamed as he took it from her. "Thank you," he said to her, and she smiled in return.

"It's no problem." But as she watched the boy look over the book excitedly, she began to speak again. "You didn't lose your book, did you?" she asked softly. The boy froze, but looked up at her with solemn eyes and shook his head, confirming her thoughts. Hermione nodded, giving him a sympathetic look.

'_His resemblance to Neville is just far too uncanny_,' she thought to herself. Somehow, that only made her pity him even more.

"Do you remember who stole it from you?" she asked soothingly. "I'm Head Girl… I can get him to give it back to you." She pointed at the badge on her chest, newly polished.

The boy sighed. "Well, he was in Slyther—…." The boy halted his words as his eyes widened, looking past Hermione.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, concerned and worried. "Slytherin?" she asked, her mind shouting quips of intuitive confirmation. Of course it was Slytherin. It was a lowly thing to do, stealing a book. A Potions book, at that. That vicious lot must have loads of mawkish pride in their house to steal one of those. It was also incredibly stupid, which had 'Slytherin' written all over it.

Suddenly, the boy started to frantically shake his head. His eyes bulged out of his head and Hermione blinked in surprise. "No, I must be mistaken," the boy quickly said. "He wasn't in Slytherin at all. Thanks again for the book!" he squeaked, before he hurried past her.

Hermione stared at the place where the boy had stood, baffled.

She furrowed her brows in confusion, trying to figure out the reason as to why the little boy had just lied to her so quickly like that. And how he could have gone from uncannily resembling Neville to uncannily resembling Colin Creevey. Though the two were probably the best pair to compare in Gryffindor House, it was still ways to go. Merlin, what was happening today?

But what she couldn't figure out the most was why he'd seemed so… frightened.

"Oh my, was that the boy Crabbe got the new padding for his owl cage from?"

Hermione jumped, surprised. She turned around and groaned silently at who stood before her, arms folded and leaning against the bookcase.

Draco Malfoy was smirking at her, his loose blond hair covering part of his eyes, his Slytherin class ring winking at her.

Hermione glared at him, cursing his presence and everything associated to him. How dare he stand so proudly like that on the shelf? With his stupid hair and his stupid smirk and his stupid ring? Even with the knowledge that he was a vile little snake didn't disrupt him from his daily terrorism the slightest bit, did it?

"Well, well, Granger…" he sneered. "Helping lost souls in the library? Well, how noble. You know, your gallantry might earn you a few points, despite your filthy blood. No one in their right mind would have handled that ridiculous boy like you choose to." He picked off an invisible piece of lint from his sleeve.

Hermione seethed.

She reminded herself that Draco Malfoy was rubbish. He had to be to be picking _invisible lint_ off of his clothes.

She chose to ignore his remark and looked up at him boldly. "Did you say Crabbe was the one who stole that boy's book?" Hermione asked sternly, narrowing her eyes at him. She was getting awfully tired of his appearances, but maybe she could somehow punish him by shaming him or embarrassing him from the wrongdoings of his "friends." But she doubted it. If Draco Malfoy was not even ashamed of himself, then there was little else he could possibly be ashamed of.

Draco rolled his eyes, and then yawned, raising his hand to his mouth. "Oh, did I? I don't seem to remember."

"Don't toy with me, Malfoy," she said, stepping closer to him, giving the air of a challenge. Oh, she was certainly going to bring it now, he had no _idea_. "Stealing is wrong, and your fool Crabbe should know better than doing that. And to a first year!" she exclaimed incredulously. "He's got no morals at all, does he? I'm giving him detention for this."

"Granger," he locked eyes with her, "first of all, I don't care if stealing is wrong, or, if it's the bloody righteous thing to do!" He mocked enthusiasm, raising his hands, which tremendously irked Hermione, proving so with her twitching brow. "And I suggest you not bother to explain any of your ridiculous morals to Crabbe, because the only brain cells he has is used to remember his name. Just hand him the bloody detention and get on with your life. Believe me, your lectures aren't going to go anywhere with that elephant, and if you don't, then go ahead and try. You'll only be wasting your time."

Somehow, Draco didn't seem to understand why he was actually giving her advice. Helpful advice, at that. About Crabbe. But it wasn't, really. It was just common sense.

"Well, I thank you for the useful information, Malfoy," she remarked sarcastically and rather spitefully. Really, what was wrong with today? Draco Malfoy's ferret face was popping up wherever she was! It was like a sodding nightmare! Or, like, was it one of those things, like the Muggle game, where moles' heads would pop up out of their holes and she had to whack them with a wooden mallet? That made her smile a little, but then she cleared her throat. Hitting Draco Malfoy on the head with a wooden mallet. Hee hee. "Now, if you excuse me, I've had enough of you for one day, and I still need to head over and find Crabbe." She walked past him, but froze when she suddenly felt something on her arm.

Draco twisted her around, and nothing less than surprise caused her stomach to leap inside her. "Did you not listen to a bloody word I said, out there in the corridor?" he said to her, his temper fouling, an irritated look on his pale face.

She remembered (though she didn't need to) that he was good at that. Sneering, glowering, smirking. And that it was ridiculous how a person could be so good at looking so mean and intimidating because she hadn't even thought it was possible until she'd met him. The bastard of all bastards. He was so good at his "art" that it made Snape look mediocre at passing out philippics to Gryffindors. And that was really saying something.

Hermione felt a knot form in her throat as she looked into his steely eyes; aware of the contact he was now having with her. She felt as if his hand was burning through the fabric of her robe, as she suddenly felt heat radiating on her arm. She swallowed hard, feeling her heart dive in her chest, before she shook herself and gathered her wits.

"I heard you," she said angrily, jerking her arm away. She wanted to rub away all of his germs. She could feel them crawling all over her – her arm tingled. "A job scrubbing the floors! Really, Malfoy! I thought you could come up with something better than that!" Her momentary shock was now dominated by anger as she pushed away the questions of the odd sensations that had flared inside her when he had grabbed her arm.

'_Because_,' she said to herself, '_they were without a doubt caused by pure hate and revulsion that this monster touched me! Now I've got to burn the only good pair of robes I have left! He truly does _live_ to ruin me!'_

"No, Granger, not that, " he drawled. "And I _could_ come up with more insults to throw at you, but then, seeing each other wouldn't be so fun anymore, would it? I'd be all out of things to say to you. And Malfoys don't use clichéd and old name-calling."

"Funny," she snorted. " 'Mudblood' has been overused since _second_ year. In fact, most of your vocabulary has been. Huh," she said cocking her head to the side and tonguing her cheek. "The irony, right?"

"Very amusing," he said. "But for 'Mudblood' there's a very special exception. That _is_ your name, isn't it?" Draco was pleased to see Hermione's eyes suddenly dim dangerously from his simple comment.

"Malfoy," she said warningly, her eyes flickering dangerously, "stay away from me." She stepped away from him, glowering, before she turned on her heel and walked towards the doors. But as she heard him call out to her again, she froze and sighed dejectedly, her shoulders slouching noticeably.

She was going to punch him.

She was.

Honest.

"Didn't you hear, Granger?" Draco called out. "Dumbledore wants to meet with us right after the last of our classes. I'm sure I told you; after all, that's why we were tardy."

Hermione felt her heart fall to the pit of her stomach.

"Bloody hell," she muttered to herself.

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The notion of walking in a desolate hallway with Malfoy and only Malfoy was frightful, and therefore required more than the usual wariness from Hermione. The remainder of the students had already gone up to their common rooms or their dormitories to find some solitude from their hectic studies, and Hermione couldn't help but envy them. She hated feeling as if he was just going to hex her out of nowhere.

She was walking ahead of Draco, and she would try to look in the corner of her eye to see him without turning around, but her attempts proved futile. She felt tense, hearing his clicking footsteps behind her and feeling his eyes on her… it made the hair on the back of her neck rise. She could _swear_ he was going to hex her when she wasn't expecting it. Could almost feel it. And that led her to thinking which hex he would use, where she came up with a terrifying selection that almost made her sick.

She had thought that Malfoy would insist on walking in front of her because of his so-called superiority and "pure" blood, and the fact that he thought he was better than everyone, most especially her, but surprisingly, he hadn't made a move to walk past her at all and lead the way. But she wished he did, even if his intentions were haughty and despicable. Because that way, the situation would be opposite-ways. _He_ would be feeling as if _she_ would hex him, not the other way around. Because she could, she honestly could.

Hermione furrowed her brow, halting her frivolous fantasies of hexing him. '_Hold on a minute. Where are we going?'_ she thought as she suddenly stopped when she realized they had passed Dumbledore's office.

Just then, she felt him bump into her, as he was obviously not watching her as she thought he had been. She heard him swear under his breath as she stepped back, ignoring his colorful language, and turned to him.

"Aren't we supposed to be heading for Dumbledore's office?" she inquired. "We passed it minutes ago."

"Bloody hell, Granger," he said irritably. "I was informing you of our little trip a moment ago, but it seemed you were more intent on concentrating to remember how to walk with two feet."

Hermione looked at him for a short moment before sighing, though stiffening. She wondered if he could tell from her expression that she'd been imagining horrible misfortunes on him.

"Sorry, Malfoy," she shot at him, absentminded at her words. "I've had a really long day, okay? You've been popping out nearly out of nowhere, and I think everyone's allowed to zone out once in a while."

Realizing the first part of what she had said to him, she froze with a funny look on her face, as if incredulous and mystified.

Draco had an eyebrow raised at her. "What's the matter? Did Pince throw you out of the library and now you're suddenly finding yourself to be homeless?" he commented. "Don't worry, Granger, you can live with the house-elves, since I've heard you love them so much." He smirked at her and she glared at him in return.

"Must you really be such a arsehole?" she asked him. Because, seriously.

"Ooh, watch your language, Miss Granger," he mocked. "Or else that's a point deduction from your house. I honestly cannot believe the language of you Muggles these days," he remarked. "What do you wash your mouths with? Mud?"

Scowling, Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. That was before, however, she let out a heavy sigh. Then she shook her head, her brown locks swinging and whipping across her face gently. Draco was strangely surprised to see the look of weariness and exhaustion show on her face and very noticeably in her usually bright or ablaze fiery brown eyes. Draco felt an unfamiliar squirming feeling in his stomach as he suddenly found himself wanting to look away in discomfort.

Here was the deal: part of him wanted to laugh at her or make some derisive comment, but the other part just wanted to walk away very, very quickly. It felt odd standing in front of her like this. Hermione Granger looking like some downtrodden puppy that had just been drinking gutter water for its whole miserable life had "Bloody-hell-she's-going-to-hex-you" all over it. It was just too… strange. He had never even been aware that Mudblood Granger _could_ get tired. To him, she had always been something like Super Mudblood. That's why she had always been so deathly annoying.

He rolled his eyes, playing it off expertly. So what if she was tired? He was tired as well! Honestly! Walking behind her far closer than he had ever intended to was exhausting – he kept thinking that he was going to catch some venereal disease just by breathing the same air she was breathing. Okay, so not really, as he was not that naïve. But you get the point. He could think of many capital things than spending time with _Granger_.

"Granger, we don't have time for your Feel-Sorry-For-Me-I'm-a-Poor-Little-Mudblood routine, all right?" he said, waving it off. "I've seen it all before. Believe me."

"We could do without any more insults, thanks," she snapped at him. "I just want to know if we're going to Dumbledore's office, or if we're to head somewhere else to meet him. I wasn't paying attention before."

He firmed the scowl on his face. "To the Great Hall," he said simply. "Dumbledore asked us to meet him there. And pay attention, will you?" he barked. "Or else you're as good as deaf. Which isn't any good at all."

"Well, thanks, I'll keep that in mind," she snapped, before she turned on her heel and huffed, walking away with her nose in the air.

He stared at the place where she had stood, an odd look on his face.

It amazed him how much she could look like some wretched, kicked-all-over-the-bloody-place puppy, especially with those eyes of hers. Dark, solemn and brown. The color of mud. It was rather fitting, wasn't it? Everything about her resembled mud. Her hair. Her eyes. It was even sort of sad when he thought about it, because he found himself smirking at the way fate had played this out. She'd been _destined_ to be a Mudblood. He wondered why he'd never thought of that before.

Finally, he shook himself from his thoughts and realized that she was a good distance away from him. He ran a hand through his hair, looking at the now empty corridor before him, and then headed on.

He easily pushed the thoughts of her out of his mind as he turned and walked faster, knowing that they were already late. He was glad for her absence, for she really did bug him to extraordinary limits. His mind was buzzing with such volume and his stomach felt as if he had just swallowed a ten-ounce cauldron of crawling critters.

Must've been that Mudblood disease his father was always chippering on about.

"Damn," he muttered to himself, and started to jog.

oooo

Draco slowed into a paced walk as he reached the Great Hall's doors. He grasped the handle and opened the door, slipping inside and letting the door slam behind him. He had an unreadable expression on his face as he walked in, silent, and saw that he had come only seconds after Granger had, as she was only beginning to sit down. He took a seat across from her, looking at Dumbledore firmly and trying to avoid any eye contact with his partner.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting, Professor," he heard her say. Dumbledore smiled kindly at her, and Draco rolled his eyes.

"Now, Miss Granger, Mister Malfoy," said Dumbledore, looking at the pair of them with a wild look about him. His spectacles flashed happily in the light. "I was reading the Daily Prophet about three mornings ago, and I came up with an idea." His sapphire eyes danced behind his glasses. "Of course, you two would have to go about setting up the process and making it work, but I think it would bring some much needed excitement to Hogwarts. . . ."

**A/N:** in singsong **Review...**


	2. Music From a Pureblood

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter—that's about as simple as it gets.

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I would like to thank whoever gave this fic a chance, read it, liked it and reviewed. Thank you. There should be more people like you in the world. ;)

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**Chapter Two: Music from a Pure-blood**

Hermione left the Great Hall with an ache starting to form inside her head. She had trouble keeping her eyelids open for they seemed to be getting heavier and heavier by the moment as if they were somehow tied down to the floor by a very heavy cinderblock. Her mind was slow and dawdling (which was awfully rare and even frightened her when she wondered if her present condition might be permanent), her thoughts were lagging, and her ears were shutting and tuning out.

Hermione sighed.

She looked down the corridor wearily, dragging her feet as she made her way. Her mind was too tired to think of any suggestions or plans at the moment for Dumbledore's latest idea. For though the meeting hadn't taken long – a mere hour and a half – her exhaustion had caught up with her quickly as she simply sat there, immobile and unmoving, and listened.

Throughout the whole meeting she had avoided looking in Draco's way, for fear of catching his eye and then remembering her awkwardness, for even the simple thought of it embarrassed her and made her cheeks flare up with a bright blush. Anger, she could do with. But being secretly humiliated by him? That was a whole new low for her.

"Oh," she sighed despairingly. "This bloody sucks."

Hermione ascended a flight of stares where the portraits watched her, concerned and curious.

"Merlin, dear girl," a man with a wiry brown beard remarked, shooting her a look of intrigue. "Whatever happened to you? Didja get run over by the train?"

"Sadly, no," she muttered.

Hermione's mind strangely started to feel as if it was overheating as she suddenly remembered her agenda. She realized she still had a lot to accomplish before the night was over. And it was strange, really, because sometimes in the very short second that she was still conscious right before her head hit her pillow, she wondered where all her time went. And in a flicker she remembered her studies, and it made her very sad. There were also those times when she wondered what would happen if she died tomorrow. Then what would she have accomplished? Not to mention she wouldn't be able to turn in the extra credit report she'd done for DADA. And one would think that this would be the apt time when Hermione Granger would halt and just rethink the way she was spending her life, so busy with things that almost never mattered to anyone else except her, but she didn't. Her mind was sort of trained to block out such thoughts; she'd strayed that way once and discovered that she didn't like it.

On her list of things to do: there was her Transfiguration assignment that she had to finish on the Ten Most Convenient Transfiguration Spells (she didn't pay mind to its due date, which was two weeks from this coming Thursday, as was the usual Hermione Granger routine), not to mention the Potions research essay on both a serum and a lethal tonic. Oh, and also the planning and design for Dumbledore's bright idea, not to mention the hiring and searching, recruiting and meetings for such a thing.

Now, usually Hermione was a chipper trooper. Usually she would not feel so tired when it was only nine o'clock. But now it seemed as if her body was sending her some messages that it was not up for anymore cramming or overnight-study marathons. After all, how could she feel so tired when it was barely curfew? She just didn't understand. She had had a good and fair amount of sleep for the past few months with the exception for a few all-nighters, but it was nothing she couldn't handle before. Of course, there were the patrols and more responsibilities that weighed heavily upon her shoulders that she hadn't had the past years, but she was positive it wasn't something that'd drive her over the edge. After all, she had been a prefect, and that had been a breeze. How could being Head Girl be any different?

"Hermione, is that you?"

She looked up as she just noticed a copper head bounding its way over to her, Ginny Weasley, who happened to be descending the flight of stairs she was walking up.

Hermione smiled politely at her friend. "Hello Ginny."

The young Weasley stopped in front of Hermione, looking at her with a creased ginger brow and a worried expression. "Hermione, are you all right? You look a bit…"

"Like I got run over by a train?" Hermione finished off for her, silently concurring with her choice of words. Did she really look all that horrible?

Ginny nodded uncertainly, peering at her and making sure she wasn't hurt or about to drop onto the floor in a dead faint any second now.

Hermione only sighed, running a hand through her now frizzy locks. "I went to a meeting with Malfoy and Dumbledore…" she began, before Ginny nodded, suddenly understanding.

"Oh." She looked as if she wanted to laugh, though why on earth she even wanted to laugh let alone repress it was beyond Hermione. "No need to further explain. I see the reason for your… fatigue."

"You do?" asked Hermione, puzzled.

"Yeah," said Ginny. "You know. Malfoy."

Hermione suddenly remembered, and instantly felt foolish. "Oh. Right." She laughed weakly. "You know, the usual 'Mudblood' jokes and 'Oh I think I'm so good-looking and better than everyone because I live in my own imaginary world.' Usual infuriating ferret behavior." Hermione nodded along, as if trying to shake her wits out of her head, or rather, back in her head. Merlin, she was exhausted. The ground was looking really nice right now to lie down on.

Ginny nodded, but gave her a knowing look. "Well, then, I heard Dumbledore had some pretty big news."

"Where did you hear that?" she asked, curious.

"Oh, you know, gossip," she smiled wryly.

Hermione frowned. "Oh."

"Are you going to be owling us for a meeting anytime soon?" Ginny inquired, and Hermione noticed the excited sparkle inside her eyes with great amusement.

"Yeah, you can be certain," replied Hermione. "Dumbledore's plan is going to take a lot of planning, and we're going to have to work on it as soon as possible so we can get it out to the public right away." Saying those words – "get it out to the public right away" – made her feel nervous. She fidgeted uneasily.

Ginny nodded, suddenly glowing with anticipation. Hermione remembered that her young friend had always been well active and quite a participant in extracurricular activities. She knew she was going to tackle at this one as well.

"Well, that sounds exciting," she beamed.

Hermione smiled back at her. She knew that Ginny had been one of the few people who had never held a grudge against her in her past hectic times, and she was glad to have Ginny so close. She certainly couldn't stand being around Harry and Ron sometimes (especially when she and Ron were having an argument, which always seemed to be the case), and she could never talk casually with Parvati or Lavender without them pestering her about her personal life (all she had to say was, what personal life? You'd think that'd be enough for them to leave her the sod alone). Ginny was good to be around with, though at times she could be a bit too boy-crazy. But all in all, Hermione didn't mind — she was used to the eccentric ways of the Weasley family. They always made her laugh.

"Yeah. I suppose so. Well, I better get on going. I've got to study and do my Transfiguration and Potion assignments… Busy schedule, you know. You have a good night, okay, Ginny?"

Ginny nodded, still smiling. "Yeah, I will. I'm patrolling the corridors tonight, and that won't be so hard. Just promise me you won't study all night, okay? All those all-nighters can't be good for you, Hermione," she said worriedly.

Hermione was grateful for her friend's concern, but was familiar with the feeling of not being able to _really_ guarantee anything. She waved it off as something insignificant. As terrible as it was to say, she didn't really listen to the young Weasley when it came to these things. Nor did she listen to anyone else, actually. Hermione was quite conceited in a subtle way. "All right, Ginny. I'll see you tomorrow," she said, and they said their due goodbyes and headed to their destinations.

When Hermione reached her room, she did not waste time. She neatly set down her book bag on her four poster before undoing the buttons of her robes and shrugging it off, relieved to finally step out of their dreadful, heavy uniform clothes. She shook out her hair, frowning at the frizzy ends as she ran her fingers down her strands. She undid her tie and set it beside her robes, absentmindedly pulling off her sweater. She dressed out of her uniform before dressing into some comfortable nightwear before opening her satchel and taking out her textbooks.

She smiled weakly as she motherly held her Potions and Transfiguration textbooks, along with lengthy and precise notes she had taken for the assignments. She headed over to her desk, putting it down neatly to the side and then picking out a fresh piece of parchment and quill, before uncapping her inkbottle.

She sat down, making sure she was at the right sitting position (sometimes she got back cramps, so this was important – don't laugh), before deciding to do her Transfiguration essay first. She then reached over for her book and drew out her notes. She muttered to herself as she flipped over to the correct page number, and then looked over at her notes once again.

"One foot and a half to… two scrolls of parchment…." Hermione smiled faintly at this. This was going to be fairly easy. She knew the subject well and she knew it down to the specific facts, and a measly one foot and a half of text about it was far too easy.

Licking her lips, she picked up her quill and dipped it delicately into her inkbottle, getting started.

When Hermione Granger was finished with both her Transfiguration essay and her Potions essays, complete with double-checking for any grammatical errors and the other neurotic things she went through in her routine, she felt quite proud of herself. She put away her quill before clapping her hands in joy, glad to have finally finished with their required homework. She hummed to herself cheerfully as she carefully stowed away her parchments and textbooks, standing up and walking over to pack them in her book bag as not to forget to pack it and hand it in when it was due.

Hermione was feeling a bit tired as she looked over at her clock. The hands were set at twelve fifteen, and she silently thought to herself.

'_It isn't all that late. I could still pack in an hour or so for reading and studying…. And we've got that test in Herbology in three weeks. . . .'_

(Ah, yes, she had a very lonely life.)

But as she yawned and stretched, she realized that her body felt a bit worn out and drained. Hence, she decided to take a bath. And so with her mind easily tempted and swayed by the idea of a soothing and calming bath, she promised herself that the reading and studying bit would come afterwards when she was feeling refreshed.

Hermione got up and grabbed her towel, heading out of her room.

The common room was empty as she looked around the luxurious and spacious room filled with rich colors of silver and crimson. She knocked on the bathroom door, and when no reply came, twisted the shiny knob and went in.

She stripped off her clothes in anticipation for the soothing affects of the bath, picking out fragrant and lavender-colored bubbles that soon poured out and filled the tub. She sighed dreamily, inhaling the scent of lilacs and sweet flowers that drifted and wafted about in the room. Once she turned off the classy silver faucet, she slipped in and closed her eyes as she leaned her head back to rest against the head of the tub.

"Oh Merlin," she whispered distantly, a faint smile on her lips. She hadn't known the true healing powers of a mere bath until now. "This feels good." And it really did. The warm liquid eased and relieved her tense muscles and shoulders, the aromatic smell pacifying and clearing her mind of any stressing or demanding thoughts. She knew that this was just what she needed. In her lazy thoughts, she even began to ponder the possibility of falling asleep in the bath and drowning, which was not a very nice thing to think about, and so she didn't stay very long. She didn't want to fall asleep and die.

After she had climbed out and dried herself, she contentedly drained the bath and watched the bubbles swirl in a surreal circular movement before they suddenly vanished. She slipped on her pajamas and ran her fingers through her slightly damp hair, tying it up into a loose knot at the base of her neck.

Her reflection in the vast mirror caught her eye as she was tying up her hair.

She sighed longingly, her eyes exploring her features. It wasn't too often she _really_ looked inside a mirror – most of the time it was just a glance to make certain she looked presentable, and then off she went, with her bulging book bag and slightly uneven walk (because of her heavy book bag, you see). She thought that looking in mirrors all the time was mildly asinine to do, because a person couldn't change looks overnight – at least, in a dramatic way. So, really, she didn't really have to. But today, just in case her face had somehow changed over the past few days, she looked. (There was no harm in looking. There was looking _a lot_, but that was called vanity, and Hermione was not vain. For an exact definition of 'Vanity' look under Draco Malfoy.)

There were a few light freckles sprinkled across her nose; her lips tinted a dark, faded pink color. Her hair had grown out of their bushiness and had matured into soft waves in a shade of brown that reminded her of the dead leaves one would hear crunching underneath the soles of their trainers in the fall. It was a color that was in the middle of the many shades of brown, and frankly, she had always liked her hair color – even though it shared the color dead foliage in autumn.

She remembered distinctly that over the summer her mother had tried to convince her to put in some streaks of blond or a lighter color after her yearly haircut, for she had said it was "time for a change," (bollocks to that, every year was the time for a change for her mother) but Hermione, awfully old-fashioned, refused and told her mother that she saw girls on the streets of London who had the same exact idea of getting highlights and that she was too busy to follow that hair craze. Luckily enough, her mother finally gave up soon after – due to her stubbornness – and left her daughter alone.

Hermione'd never been too fond of hair salons, anyway. She'd tried to get her hair fixed up for her aunt's wedding once and they'd practically fried her hair off – as if it didn't already looked like a mousy cat had died and permanently shriveled on her head.

Her eyes were a dark and deep brown in contrast to her hair, and it seemed to be the only blots of color on her face as her skin was rather pale and absent of a summer tan that was common amongst her peers. She knew all too well that the slightly pasty color of her skin had been acquired from staying inside to read and study all summer.

She was… simple looking, plain in a way that was not longer seen in her generation. It was a well-known fact that the girls her age liked to dress provocatively and dressed that way for seduction for any handsome-looking fellow that they happened to come across.

Hermione frowned.

She wasn't like that at all. Yes, there were times she liked to dress up for any special occasions, like maybe a dinner party or the balls and dances they held here at Hogwarts, but besides that, she dressed… simply. She didn't wear skimpy or tight outfits that bared her midriff or breasts, and profusely resisted to swim in the current that the media appeared to be hypnotizing them to dive face-first into. Though she was a bit resentful at times and she did see the look on her mother's face whenever she would clarify that she had no boyfriend every single summer (_Krum was never really a boyfriend_, she reminded herself), she didn't think she could ever pull off such a thing that was not her true self or style. She would only be compromising herself for the sake of superficial blokes, and that would surely drive her to clinical madness, if not worse.

Her reflection then smiled reassuringly at her, and Hermione felt her heavy heart suddenly become a bit lighter.

She told herself that she liked being plain in a sense that people would look at her as if she was the last of her kind. She shouldn't care if boys never really took the effort to romance her or let her know that she needn't change for him. And she shouldn't feel pressured into dressing that way to catch someone's eye or get them to approach her.

'_The right bloke will come_,' she reassured herself, reminding herself of all the times she would longingly watch those couples holding hands, kissing, laughing when she took a walk out on the holidays and secretly resenting them like a bad gaffe. '_He'll come in the right time, and he'll like me just the way I am. I'll not have to worry about these silly things again.'_

Damn straight, Hermione Granger. Damn straight.

She took one last look, – neither very pleased nor unsatisfied – just merely content, before she walked out of the bathroom, consciously wringing towel in her grasp. But just as she was crossing the common room, fluffing out her hair, she passed the Head Boy's room as she always did and thought she heard a peculiar noise. Impulsively, she froze.

Her toes shifted against the lush carpet, her ears straining to make out the odd noise. Normally she would just walk away very, very quickly because she wasn't a nosy nuisance and this was _Draco Malfoy's_ room, but out of all the noises she thought she'd hear from his room (like explosions of sounds of torture or the sound of flipping the pages of a pornographic magazine), it wasn't what she thought it would be. It didn't sound anything like… _ahem_. Sex noises.

Hermione almost felt herself blush when heard it again.

It had been very soft at first, but this time it was louder. It was familiar…

She turned her head and faced his door, her brunette brows furrowed in puzzlement and curiosity. She was only feet from his door as she stepped closer. She heard it again… and it continued, until it stopped again, straight into dead silence.

Just then, as she stood and waited, she heard the noise play continually, and she widened her eyes in surprise as she recognized the noise.

The radio, her cousin, the telly set to all those music channels. . . .

She was shocked beyond words as her thoughts frantically scurried to come together to make sense.

This time, it didn't stop. It played continually, note after note, playing a beautiful melody and tune.

It was… a guitar. An acoustic, judging from the quiet and faint strums, though she could be wrong, considering that Hermione herself had never been a musician. But she was undoubtedly sure it was a Muggle instrument.

A Muggle instrument. Maybe even the same sort as she saw in the clutches of bands and solo artists and her musician cousin.

She heard the notes change and play slowly but smoothly, turning into an unfamiliar but slow and dreamy harmony.

She was having a very, very tough time believing her ears. This was _Draco_ _Malfoy's_ room. The same Draco Malfoy who hated Muggles and Muggle things, not to mention _her_.

Holy shit. Maybe it was some sort of torture device.

After all, why else would there be live music inside of Draco Malfoy's bedroom? It wasn't likely that he'd actually have a great appreciation of the arts. He didn't even like _people_ – how could he like art?

Creases formed on her forehead from her puzzled expression, shaking her head.

This was very, very strange.

And then, quite logically, she began to really wonder what she was doing. Standing outside of his door like some creepy person? God forbid if she was ever Draco Malfoy's groupie just because he'd managed to strum a stolen Muggle instrument from some poor kid! Hermione, feeling very unsettled by how she'd taken to spending her time now, sticking her nose in how Malfoy spent his pretentious time, walked away very quickly, shuddering.

"This is ridiculous," she said to herself irritably, her back against her door after she left the common room. "Bloody ridiculous."

In an effort to leave all this behind, she got off of her bed and picked up her textbook for Herbology. She collapsed back, shifting against her bed as she opened her book to a random page and read the contents quickly.

But predictably, as her eyes read, the words appeared to be nonsense to her mind and did not reach the core of her brain at all. The same dreamy melody distinctly played in her mind, gathering all of her thoughts in its wicked little corner. Hermione, however, awfully strong-willed like a wild stallion, kept reading, and she flipped the page, a determined look on her features.

But as she read over the consequent five pages, she realized that she could not remember or recall any bit of information she had read at all.

She sighed again, angry with herself and her stubborn mind. Her hands held the book above her face, blocking the light and dimming her view.

"Rubbish," she said to herself, harshly. "This is _rubbish_."

Because it was. For some reason she was wildly curious about what a Muggle instrument was doing in Malfoy's room. _How_ did it get there?

She threw the book down beside her as the bed bounced softly and shortly, and she raised her hands to her face. She wanted to scream at herself and forget the last few minutes. That _damned_ song kept playing over and over in her head like an insufferable whiny pop song. Except worse. Because now she knew that it really _was_ a torture device.

She lay there, motionless, contemplating angrily.

She even recited the many versions of _Hogwarts: A History_.

It was a trick. A devious trap. Maybe this was a spell, a spell that would make her think about him more than necessary and suddenly make her head explode.

'_No, that's physically impossible,'_ she thought to herself, scratching that possibility out, massaging her temples. She then realized that that still did not make things any better.

Then, just to show herself that it wasn't the end of the world, and that she was going to do perfectly fine, she got up from her bed, walked out of her room, and strutted back into the common room, falling on one of the couches with her arms crossed tightly across her chest.

It was the same song. It was well-defined and graceful and Hermione knew well enough that he was indeed very skilled. She stared at his bare door for a while, curious yet overwhelmed. She then began to talk to herself, wondering aloud what on _earth_ was happening to this world that Draco Malfoy was suddenly able to create such angelic music. It was entirely futile, though, because she never did find her answer. She reckoned it was just because the world was the world. Insufferably, it did not have to answer to anyone.

When he had stopped playing, she quickly left, her bum leaving the cushion so fast it was as if it had been burned, and went back into her room, fearing that Malfoy would open the door and see her there and everything would then explode into a very bad, weird thing.

That night, her mind was strangely at rest and dreamily satisfied, an unusual feeling that she had never gotten before. (Though she did not express any gratitude to Malfoy's guitar playing, inward or outward. She made it a point not to think of him before going to bed – she already knew from experience that it would not end well.)

She went straight to her bed and whispered a spell as the lights flickered out and she was left swimming in the darkness. Studying for her Herbology test was now far too gone out of her mind as she closed her eyes and snuggled inside the warm covers. She felt herself fall into the exhaustion and strain from her tiring day.

And she fell asleep, still trying not to think of it at all.


	3. The Letum Floreus and an Unexpected Hero

Basketcase

By attica

**Chapter Three: The _Letum Floreus_ and an Unexpected Hero**

Hermione awoke to the shrill and loud singing of her alarm clock, reverberating loudly and thumping against the hardwood. Practical woman that she was, it was conveniently placed on the drawer sitting next to her bed.

She reached over and tapped her palm down on the STOP button, instantly silencing the raucous, as she yawned and stretched. She disentangled herself from her covers, stepping out onto the soft carpet, and looked around. She sighed, taking in her familiar surroundings, before looking over to the window. The curtain was drawn, as she had always done so after she took her daily peek out into the world.

Hermione walked over to the window slowly pushed the velvet curtain aside, revealing the spotless and pristine glass of her window. She looked out, observing the ground below.

There was still snow down on the grounds, white and powdery. But as she looked heavenward, she immediately noticed that the sky was now blotted a stronger and determined gray, darker and more absolute than yesterday. She shivered, predicting what was to come for the weather today. A storm or a blizzard, promising to be headstrong and very unpleasant.

She lowered her gaze again, downwards to the snow below her. She remembered the foretelling of the day before for the morning had been a beautiful one indeed, but the day hadn't gone as smoothly as she had expected it to.

Yeah, no kidding.

Yesterday had undoubtedly been a hard day. She had been late to class because of that horrid meeting with Malfoy in the corridor (why hadn't she kicked him again?), and then there had been Crabbe stealing that poor boy's Potions book, as well as that meeting with Dumbledore… and then there had been sitting out in the common room, listening to Malfoy playing the guitar.

Hermione suppressed a groan at that thought.

Oh, Merlin. There wasn't even anything she could say to defend herself against that, so she wasn't even going to try. All she could say was: it wasn't her fault. It wasn't her fault she had a great appreciation of the arts.

Hermione let out a heavy sigh, trying to free her mind of her debating thoughts as she quickly drew the curtain again and turned on her heel. She pushed her thoughts of the loathed Draco Malfoy to the farthest and deepest shadowed corner of her mind, as she grabbed her toothbrush and headed for the Heads bathroom.

oooo

After dressing into new robes and neatly clipping her hair in a simple up-do, she took her book bag and slid it on her shoulder, heading out to the Great Hall for breakfast. She took her regular seat at the Gryffindor table, chatting with Ginny and sending the occasional scold at Ron for not swallowing before he spoke — the usual routine of her mornings.

"How did it go with Dumbledore last night?" asked Harry curiously.

"It was… Well, it was a Heads meeting," she frowned, recalling yesterday's events. "Malfoy had to come fetch me in the library, and… I suppose you can say it wasn't all that pleasant." She stabbed her porridge, imagining the thick glop to be Draco Malfoy's pale face.

"Well, that's nothing new," Ron snorted beside him, snatching another piece of bacon off the serving platter with his fork.

Harry nodded; sending a sympathetic smile towards Hermione, though not really, because she could tell Harry was thinking it was better her than him. "I really do feel sorry for you for having to be with Malfoy. If it were me, I'd've hexed him by now."

Hermione waved his comment off, reaching for her goblet. "Harry, there's ups and downs to everything," she remarked, as she set down her cup and swallowed the cold, sweet liquid. She said this as if she was okay with Malfoy being Head Boy, which was funny, because most often she wasn't. But it was just one of things in life – things that socked you right in the stomach and made you throw up for a few weeks, and then it simmered a little, then somehow it managed to settle. But she liked to keep up this pretense like she had everything under control because she could handle anything they could throw her way, and if it meant having to deal with some bigoted creep, then fine. She could do that. Whining and complaining about all of the Mudblood jokes (and how they still – every time – stung) Malfoy spat at her like well wishes wasn't going to do anything. Harry and Ron wouldn't be able to do anything about it, anyway. And if they did, they'd only end up making complete fools of themselves. And if that could be avoided just by her shutting her mouth, then that was the easy way.

"I've always wanted to be Head Girl, and I daresay I think I always knew the Head Boy would be Malfoy. So I've had time to prepare." She winked. "Why else do you think I know so many hexes?"

She wasn't kidding, by the way.

She could totally destroy him. Were it ever permitted.

"_What_?" Ron asked, distorting his face in disgust and shock. "What do you mean you 'always knew'?"

"Well," explained Hermione. "He's got the second highest grades in the school, Ron, you know that."

"But he's a git," he said, with a passion.

Hermione sighed. "Yes… but if he was a nice bloke and he _wasn't_ a git, he still would have been Head Boy." She felt as if she was talking to a five-year-old.

"Malfoy being decent? That's really hard to imagine, Hermione. I, for one, have never seen that blasted prick smile, not smirk, but _smile_. _Really_ smile. I mean, honestly, he's just evil and wicked."

"I can't disagree," said Hermione. It never occurred to her that while she hated saying bad things about people, she'd always complied when her anger towards Draco Malfoy just needed venting. She didn't even think of Draco Malfoy as a person, to think of it. He was just this monster daily terrorizing their lives. So the bad things they said about him were, in every level, deserved. "I'd like to think about what it'd take for him to smile, though. I think he'd just keel over and die if he ever did."

"Him and Snape both," said Harry.

"Malfoy and Snape," grumbled Ron. "They're like the sodding Duo of every Gryffindor's nightmare."

When the first meal of the day was over, Hermione made sure that she had all of her books before she left with Ron and Harry. Her two friends were talking about the recent events in the boy's dormitories while Hermione, as usual, just listened along and joined in with their laughter every now and then. Their conversation came to a halt, however, when they finally reached their first class, Transfiguration.

Professor McGonagall's lecture today wasn't as painstaking as her past ones, but was rather sharp and straightforward as she explained the consequences of all sorts of Transfiguration, along with some grotesque pictures. Naturally, the class thought it was brilliant and raved on about it afterwards with full hand gestures and wet sound affects. (Their favorite was the consequence of human-furniture Transfiguration.) Hermione was disappointed to hear that the professor hadn't mentioned any new homework, and only reminded them of their essay that she had already finished the night before.

Their next class was Herbology with Professor Sprout, and as they trekked towards greenhouse three in curiosity, they overheard some people talking about the particular subject in excitement.

They hurried and made it in time to see a crowd gathering around a table full of little pots with a tiny, bright purple bud inside. Students around Hermione were asking if this was some sort of practical joke, but she, herself, was absolutely baffled. Even she didn't know about this plant. It didn't move, did not have anything particularly extraordinary about it. She didn't recognize it, and she couldn't recall reading about a small and stout, purple bud in her Herbology textbook. It looked like a regular Muggle flower. Her peers concluded just that and grumbled in dissatisfaction.

When Professor Sprout walked in from her small chat with Madam Pomfrey about the health and condition of a few of her plants, she shooed them all away from the table and told them all to their assigned places. She explained her tardy and said her due apology before she summoned them up to the front again to take a pot and bring it back to their seats.

Hermione examined the bud carefully, leaning in close to try and jog her memory back in place. But as she came out confusingly empty-handed (a great blow to Hermione's ego when she found out that she didn't know about something), she was still puzzled by the plant before her, one that seemingly made the incredulous illusion of being an average Muggle flower. They reminded her of the batch of plants her mother religiously tended to in her small garden, except this particular flower was a brighter color than those on the petals of flowers in the Muggle world. She was about to inquisitively (and impulsively) poke the small plant when she heard a loud voice speak. And she honestly didn't know why she was going to _poke_ the plant. She reckoned it was just for her to be sure it was real.

"Miss Granger, I advise you not to do such a thing."

Hermione straightened quickly with wide eyes as she looked at Professor Sprout, who was smiling at her amusedly. She heard some people laugh at her and she flushed a bright red, embarrassed for letting her damned curiosity get to her. She awkwardly fidgeted as Ron tittered beside her and she had to refuse the very tempting urge to ram her elbow into his ribs.

Professor Sprout held out a pot with both hands, quieting the class and bringing their attention to the front. "This," she said, eyeing each of them, "is the _Letum Floreus_, Latin for the words 'Death flower,' for reason that this, indeed, can bring death."

Hermione's ears perked up as this statement easily caught her attention, forgot about wanting to elbow Ron – who had now stopped sniggering, due to the word "Death," which had always seemed to sober him up in any situation – and the class had silenced into a tense and curious quiet. Hermione loved these moments, when she was particularly caught off guard. The exhilaration of learning something interestingly new excited her.

"This flower may look feeble and small, but it is considered one of the most dangerous plants in the world… when full grown, that is. What you have before you is only a child, not yet full grown, but still growing. The _Letum Floreus_ takes a full – but not very long – three months to grow into an adult. The adult _Letum_ has many uses, but they are all for toxic and poisonous uses. Its petals can be picked and ground into a fine powder that can stun a person wholly with only a pinch of it. But when taken at a larger amount, it can weaken the brain until it can no longer function, therefore sending the person into a deadly stupor. But when taken with certain fluids… for example, if someone were to put it in one's glass of water or pumpkin juice, its poison will undoubtedly send them into trauma and make their whole body unstable. This flower," she raised the pot for them all to see, "when full grown and the powder is used in a horribly large amount, can kill within minutes."

Hermione shuddered, as she looked back down at her flower.

"This flower can also be made into a certain toxin juice that is much more lethal in lesser amounts. In fact, it is illegal to own this flower when it is full grown," she informed them. "In the past ages, witches and wizards had grown these right in their very homes and used them to their purposes — killing. Two hundred fifty-seven deaths have been declared to have been caused by this flower before it was banned and made illegal to have, purchase, or sell.

"But of course, schools and research are allowed, but schools like Hogwarts in particular can only have them to teach for a month. Certain poisons were put in the flower's seeds so that after a month, the flower will wilt and die immediately, therefore not allowing it the possibility of growing to its fully matured stage.

"However, the reason for my stopping Miss Granger's action is because of the petals of the _Letum_. The _Letum_ before you is still a child; therefore the petals are not as lethal as they can truly be. On the petals there are pores that let a translucent poison to ooze out, and if one were to touch the petals and get them on their skin, a very stubborn rash will spread everywhere your hands touch, whether it be on _your_ body, or someone else's. The poison is indeed very obstinate, and it will not wash away with a mere soap and water, even if you scrub at your hardest. You will have to wash your hands with a special astringent to get it off.

"But, one piece of information that is very, very, _very_ important is about the pollen of the _Letum_," the stout professor said gravely. "The only thing that doesn't change on this plant is the pollen. When the flower is damaged or suddenly opened by a surprising impact, it will open and release a stunning, yellow mist, which is its pollen. . . ."

Hermione raised her gaze and looked around at her peers, still listening along. Their heads were either turned to Professor Sprout, their attention on her lecture, or their heads were bowed down, looking at the plant. She saw the few Ravenclaws in their class listening to Sprout attentively, some Hufflepuffs looking suspiciously at their plants, and the Slytherins…

Hermione looked at them disapprovingly.

Some of them, like Slytherin's top oafs, Crabbe and Goyle, had somehow picked up a small twig from somewhere and were poking the little bud while idiotically sniggering. What Neanderthal satisfaction they were able to get from that, she really hadn't a clue, but it really was a sad sight to witness. It was one of those moments when Hermione could clearly look into their futures… and just shake her head in disappointment. Another human life wasted away by stupidity.

Her attention then turned to Malfoy, who was beside his two cronies. He was scowling at the two unaware ones, for which Hermione knew was because Goyle had accidentally elbowed him with one of his massively proportioned, fleshy arms. She watched with sparking curiosity as Draco watched them with a sneer of disgust on his face. Hermione then saw him shake his head and mutter "Bloody apes" under his breath, and was secretly glad that he was not as immature and insolent as the two as he did not join in their pointless activity. At least _he_ was above that, even if it was not by much.

Just then, Goyle yet again elbowed Draco for the second time, as he silently snickered with Crabbe. And Draco, somehow very ill tempered and cross today, seemed to have been lit on a very short fuse and was now fed up. His eyes were dark as she saw a short glimpse of them underneath his flaxen hair, as he turned his head away and secretly pushed Goyle with his arm.

It all happened very fast then, almost to the point that it had become fuzzy, like bad reception from a broken antenna in a storm. As if there was a white noise muffling out all of the sounds, yet the sounds were still there, and she could only watch parts of it in awareness because it was so distractingly swift.

Hermione's eyes widened as Goyle was pushed to the side, his hand hitting the potted flower, as both he and the pot suddenly fell to the ground. She heard the strident shatter of the pot breaking and smashing against the solid floor, and Crabbe grunting as Goyle collapsed on top of him. Hermione saw Draco smirk triumphantly, her mouth agape. It hadn't looked like he had pushed him _that_ hard.

Just then, Hermione looked on in horror as she heard a trilling shriek and more screams follow as a thick yellow mist began to arise beside Crabbe and Goyle. The students that had been standing beside them quickly ran to the other side, screaming and alarmed. Hermione then gasped as a poor Hufflepuff girl that had been standing right beside Crabbe hadn't gotten away in time and crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Even with all the raucous pulsing in her ears, she heard the sickening, heavy and solid thump of her body falling to the ground.

Professor Sprout was now scurrying, panicking, quickly shouting at them to run to the opposite side, the side where Hermione and her friends occupied. She felt Ron and Harry grab her arms, trying to drag her away, but she stood her ground, jerking them away. Her heart halted its function as she saw more people fall to the floor as the mist spread, and she frantically could not get her wits and thoughts together. Flurrying black robes were everywhere, like dark blurs whizzing past her and she was in her car driving fast the other way, and the room was getting awfully cloudy.

_'The flower…. Poison… poison, poison… lethal… they could be dead… no, this isn't a full-grown… but it's still poison…the pollen….'_

Hermione knew her wand was in her pocket, but she couldn't move. She couldn't move at all. She didn't know where Harry and Ron were, probably already out of the massive greenhouse, but she could have sworn she'd felt someone hold her hand before the warmth slipped away. But as she clenched her fists, she felt nothing but clamminess and sweat. Her heart was racing now, faster and faster, and her thoughts were screaming at her to move. But she felt frozen, watching, the screams and shouts deafening but distinct to her ears. She felt as if she had turned into some stone statuette, incapable of thinking, moving, anything.

'_Do something! Get your wand! Do something! You're Head Girl!'_ a voice in her head screeched at her, commanding her body to recover from its terrible immobility. She looked helplessly towards Professor Sprout, who was trying to get another Hufflepuff who was frozen on the other side, her eyes wide and fear etched across her face. The whole side was empty now, except her, and the vapors were nearing her so fast.

Just then, she felt something warm beside her. Something was pressed close against her back, solid and firm. She felt hot breaths on the side of her neck and was suddenly aware that someone was whispering something in her ear.

"Well, what are you waiting for, Granger?" a familiar drawl spoke softly in her ear, sending chills up her spine. "You're Head Girl, aren't you? What's keeping you from being the hero and rescuing them?" And then there was a deep, mischievous chuckle that made even her bones quake with tremors.

But, as if she was granted a miracle, something snapped deep inside her as she suddenly felt fueled and heard her fear-enforced paralyzed state forcefully shatter. The voice had lit something deep within her, and now they were going off like fireworks on the fourth of July, gathering her thoughts and wits and enabling motion in her body, once again.

And as if right on cue, just as the mist was reaching right for the girl, Hermione dove her hand deep in the pocket of her robe and grasped her wand. She drew it out quickly and shouted the first spell she could think of.

But as she shouted the spell, the screaming faded quickly. There was a sweet but stinging smell as she inhaled and her lungs suddenly felt as if it was crumbling inwards very slowly and painfully. Her world was spinning and the room was beset with boiling waves of desert air.

She suddenly felt something warm press firmly against her mouth as the scene slowly faded from her eyes. The ground beneath her was unstable and tilting as her vision suddenly blacked out and the sound of blood pounding inside her ears dwindled away.

oooo

Hermione woke up, wincing slightly as her world spun again, feeling very dizzy and nauseous. She tried to lift her head, but instead let it drop back down again on her pillow, realizing her extreme lack of energy at the moment. Her skull felt as if it had been filled with unnecessary pounds of concrete. Her skin was cool as she tried to close her hands and as she did so, curling in her fingers, she felt horribly uncoordinated.

She sighed as she recognized the bleak atmosphere and the white ceiling that towered above her. Slowly turning her head and looking to her side, she saw colorless neat beds, and the shiny floors that she recognized to be none other than Hogwarts' hospital wing.

She shifted her hands so that they were beside her on the bed, and pushed herself to sit up. She then swore under her breath as her world unsteadily twirled yet again, tightly shutting her eyes and she clutched the sheets of the bed to hold on, afraid to fall back. When the whirling stopped, she opened her eyes and felt her heart fall at the scene before her.

On four beds in front of her, the bodies of four students were lying unconsciously amidst the pale sheets and mattress. None showed any sign of consciousness as she continued to watch their still forms, dark against the white sheets, her hands slowly forming fists and her nails biting into her palms.

She sighed shamefully as the events played over in her mind, striking a very painful chord inside her.

In the most brutal reality, she could have saved them. She had good reflexes – she knew all the right spells. And she wasn't boasting; it was just the truth. She could have saved them. And that was what really got to her, what made her throat suddenly feel like a pincushion with dozens of needles stabbed inside – the fact that she _didn't_ save them. And she could've. It would have been easy.

She had let down so many people for not doing her job. These people were here, in the hospital wing, because she had a bloody panic attack and froze like a banana daiquiri instead of fulfilling her responsibility like a true Head Girl.

She looked to her side, her shoulders slouching with the weight of her guilt and shame. She was surprised to see a parchment lying on the white side table. Noticing her name hastily written across the front, she curiously reached over and retrieved it.

She looked at the front, staring at her name. She recognized it, and strangely enough, a quick moment later, she knew it was Harry's.

She opened the letter unhurriedly as her eyes reading his rushed words.

_'Dear Hermione,_

_If you're reading this, then you're awake. Sorry we aren't there with you — Madam Pomfrey insisted that we go to the rest of our classes or else she would give both Ron and I detention. Listen, I know you too well, and I know that you're blaming yourself for the incident in Herbology…. Don't, Hermione. It isn't your fault. Everyone knows that Crabbe and Goyle had been messing with the bloody flower…. And I wouldn't be surprised if Malfoy had been part of it, too. (_Hermione snorted at this_, 'you have no bloody idea,' _she thought_.) But well, the reason you're at the hospital wing right now is because someone had also thrown down a flowerpot right beside you, in all the fright and running. You fainted from one breath of the pollen mist, but I saw Malfoy beside you and he covered your mouth and dragged you out of there before you could breathe in another. I know, I still can't believe it, either. Malfoy saved you. I'm awfully grateful to that git, though I still hate him for the evil prat that he is. Hermione, if you'd continued breathing in that pollen, you could have been stunned or paralyzed for days. Unfortunately, other people weren't as lucky._

_I hope you feel better, and we hope to see you soon,_

_Harry.'_

Hermione sighed, a faint smile on her face, as she suddenly felt comforted by her friend's letter. But then, just as she was folding up the parchment, something flashed through her mind, shrieking like a crimson siren in a rioting jailbreak, and she hastily opened it and read it again, unknowingly holding her breath.

'…_You fainted from one breath of the pollen mist, but I saw Malfoy beside you and he covered your mouth and dragged you out of there before you could breathe in another. I know, I still can't believe it, either. Malfoy saved you….'_

Hermione was gaping, rereading the letter in her hands yet again.

Somehow, she just refused to believe it.

She let out a deep sigh of air as she folded it back up and threw it back on the table. She closed her eyes as she raised her hands and massaged her temples, her questions burning like fresh hot coals and her thoughts sternly demanding without relent.

_Malfoy_. He had saved her. He had bloody saved her. And so what if it was his duty as a Head Boy? He had caused the whole sodding thing to happen in the first place! Just because he saved her (though she pleaded to think it was just a big misunderstanding) did he think that she would be in his debt? It seemed exactly the thing he would do. That was the thing with Malfoy – he could never do anything chivalrous without having something terrible up his sleeve. He was like a perpetually foul imp.

She clenched her jaw as she forcefully fell back on the bed, not quite comprehending her luck. Why did he save her? Was it truly that – to have something to hold her by? To humiliate her? Or was it something else? Something worse?

Her stomach churned.

"Granger."

She looked up and had the sudden impulse to tackle the person standing before her before proceeding in ripping out his blond hair. She felt something jump inside her heart from surprise, but was instantly dominated by the boiling anger that had finally poured out and filled her veins.

'_Well, speak of the devil,' _her mind seethed.

"You-you despicable, infuriating, undeserving and arrogant _git_!" she instantly fumed, incensed by her cynical thoughts. She sat up as quickly as she had seen him, spitting out the words that were bursting to come out.

Draco raised one silvery brow at her, surprised to see that she was already so cross at him. He looked at her questionably, but that look was quickly replaced as irritation and anger was drawn on his flawless features — a look that she had known all too well after these six years.

"Just _what_ in Merlin's name are you so bloody angry about now, you basketcase?" he snapped at her, clueless and rather annoyed at why she had been so quick to spit at him like so.

Really, when a bloke enters the hospital wing after just agreeing to do something sickeningly nice for an old man mad out of his wits, it did not bring a smile to his face when some girl sits up and starts cursing at him like she had come face-to-face with Satan himself. So this is what he receives when only carrying out an order to check on the Head Girl? He knew they should have given her an extra dose of that numbing potion – in her mouth. A little in her brain wouldn't have hurt, either.

"You-you," she seethed, too angry to speak properly, her formerly sallow face flushing with angry color. "You bloody—"

"Saved you? Well, yes I did. Except, I'd have expect you to be thanking me, not spewing out insults and names," he spat in not exactly the most dulcet tone. Something that, Hermione reckoned, he had mastered in as a child.

Suddenly, she threw her covers aside, swinging her legs over and getting up, her motions as quick as lightning in a rolling storm. She was facing him, staring up so defiantly, her eyes fiery and flashing with rage. She wanted to hit him. For being such a bastard and for _putting_ her in this situation.

"Stop it," she accosted viciously. "Stop bloody saying that. I wouldn't have needed saving if _you_ hadn't pushed Goyle!"

"He deserved it," he retaliated defensively. "You know he did."

"No!" she shouted. "No, I don't know, Malfoy! He wasn't the only one hurt! There are four people stunned and paralyzed because of you! Look around! Look around in this bloody hospital wing! Stop acting like a git and just take a blasted moment to look around of what you've done!"

Draco's eyes flashed dangerously, his eyes darkening. He stepped closer to her, his hands clenching into fists and fighting the impulse to try and shake some sense into her. _'One mustn't hit girls,'_ he reminded himself. _'One mustn't, under any circumstance, hit a girl.'_ Even if Granger wasn't really considered a girl – by anyone, really, not just by him.

Her voice was on the verge of going ultrasonic and with her mussed appearance and all, she looked very much like a banshee that hadn't any sleep for the last century or so.

"Me? _Me_? _I'm_ the one who did this? Granger, step out of your sodding shell and see it properly. _You're_ the one who could have saved them," Hermione felt her heart shatter at this callous statement coated in sharp icicles. "_You're_ the one who had your sodding wand in your pocket and could have easily shouted a spell to freeze the pollen. You're the _Head_ _Girl_," he said, his eyes steely in his fury. "Or did your bloody cleverness and know-it-all persona wear off? Did you just blank out? Tell me, Granger, I am so curious to know why you hadn't jumped at the opportunity to prove yourself as a hero and grab more favor from the old kook!"

"No!" she shouted at him in a fierce retribution, hurt by his words but fighting with all her might not to show it. She would be damned if she was ever going to let him win this. The blame was clear – it was all him! "Don't you dare try to whirl this around on me! It wasn't my fault! It was yours! You were the one who pushed Goyle! You were the one who made him fall along with the bloody flower!"

Unknowingly and despite her mental arguments of never wanting to cry in front of Draco Malfoy, small tears sprung from her eyes. Her voice was hoarse and her mouth was rough and dry, a painful knot twisting in her throat. "How _dare_ you? It's your fault! Yours and Goyle's for being so damned _stupid_!"

"Shut up, Granger," he hissed. His mouth was twisted into a scowl, his words cold and biting. "You could've saved them, and you know it. You know it, and you've thought it before. You're just angry because now everyone will look at you and think you aren't as _perfect_ as you set out to let them think you are. You're afraid that people will talk about you and tell their friends that you didn't do something right when you could have."

"Shut up!" Her vision was now slightly blurring and her eyes stinging with harshness that followed along with the shameful, burning tears. She felt a few drops slip from her eyes as she was unable to control their descent and was fighting furiously to let those fallen tears be her last, her anger and guilt burdening her so heavily. "_Shut_ _up_! That isn't true!"

She was so angry she really thought she was going to hit him.

She clenched her fists by her side.

"You aren't perfect," he said, though there was a little scoff in his voice, as if he was laughing at her. "You can't be righteous all the bloody time and it just _kills_ you, doesn't it? Just admit it, Granger! You're angry because you want people to think that you are, and you've just _ruined_ your reputation!"

"No!" And – and she was crying in front of him. It was just perfect. She was letting her own sodding self _cry_ in front of a malevolent creep… and she was convinced that he was _right_. This just could not get any worse. She thought that Draco Malfoy was _right_, and she was just egging him on, telling him to pinpoint all of the blame on _her_.

She wasn't surprised that in the back of her mind, she was silently pleading for someone, even the Dark Lord, to pop out of nowhere and hit her with the Avada Kedavra curse.

She was going to die of shame, if not the regret and pain. And she knew that Malfoy himself was going to make sure of it, too.

"I hate you, Malfoy," she whispered through clenched teeth. It seemed to be the most unreasonable yet passionate thing to say at the moment, and she knew he would concur.

"The feeling's mutual, Granger," she heard him say to her. She glared at him through her tears, and she almost felt like punching him. She felt him step back, and the air around her, strangely, got colder. "But I'm sure you already knew that. After all, you're Head Girl."

There was a pause of silence, and Hermione could feel all of her thoughts screaming repeatedly inside her head. All of them shrieked of her hate for Draco Malfoy – which was not such a surprise, considering the fact that she was still combating the urge to suddenly throw a punch in his face. If she wasn't so emotionally distressed and ruined, she was sure she would've actually done it. Hitting Malfoy had always granted her some sort of contentment towards herself. And she figured she really needed that right now.

"Dumbledore sent me in here to check on you. I'll just tell him that you're awake and fine." He said this as if it was a bad thing.

She looked up at him as she hastily wiped her eyes, and she wasn't sure of the look in his eyes. Though her vision was still blurry and unclear, his expression seemed unfamiliar. His gray eyes were dark, but not flashing with fury or glinting with hate. There was a look in his eyes that she had never seen before, and she wasn't sure of what it meant.

Maybe it was pity.

But that was just as bad as rage and hatred, come to think of it. Maybe even worse.

She watched him as he stepped back from her slowly and walked past her, heading towards the doors.

Suddenly, she called out to him.

"You're wrong," she said, through her tears and with spite. "No one is perfect. I never asked to be seen that way. I don't want to _be_ perfect."

And, for some odd reason, even though her back was to him and she could not see him, she knew he had stopped, for it was only a moment later that she heard the doors open and then shut.

Hermione asked herself why on earth it just had to be Draco Malfoy – out of all the people in this castle – who had to be the one to see her cry. She knew bitterly that the next time she would see him he would only act to rub it in her face.

And she then realized that if he did come back at her the next day with some snide remark, that yes, maybe she would allow it, because she was sure that that would eat up whatever gratitude she was supposed to be holding for him for saving her life. If she didn't react and let him take his blow, then that would surely compensate for that supposed apology one was to give someone who pushed one out of harm's way, even if that someone _was_ an insufferable bastard. It was better to be angry with him than to actually be in his debt, and she was certain of it.

But, Merlin, what she would have done to have actually punched him.

Those were the times she really hated having such a strong moral standing.

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	4. Drama in Your Breeches

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of the characters! But, boy, if I did…. Well, surely, if I did, then you would be reading _this_ in the books, eh?

**Chapter Four: Drama in Your Breeches**

Hermione, though rarely ever dispirited, woke up feeling positively glum this morning.

Over the last few days, she had been feeling the cancerous guilt grow and spread inside of her. She felt an amalgam of emotions, some prickling and some like acid, and she felt as if she walked each step with needles in her soles. Culpability weighed heavily on her heart and conscience, saddling painfully on her shoulders, making this horrid list of things to happen: her moods dropped to an all time low, and causing her to behave quite lousily to her friends (seriously, some people were actually trying to _petition_ her out of Gryffindor House) and snap at people more often than she had ever before. That is, if she even spoke to anyone. There were days she could go without speaking a single word to anyone. She couldn't even remember sleeping a single wink these past nights, and she was tired to the very marrow within her bones. And tired Hermione Granger could go both ways. She could either make people very uncomfortable by being very quiet or make people very annoyed by scowling all the time.

In class she had trouble listening attentively and refused to answer as often as she used to for some very inapprehensible reason she could not fathom (was probably too tired to), which then caused a stir amongst her peers and some concerned questions from her friends and professors. But, not wanting to worry them in any way and knowing that it was only to be her problem and no one else's, she told them that she 'd just a great difficulty sleeping this past week, which was not a lie at all.

She had been released from the hospital wing that very same day, just about an hour after Hermione had wanted to punch Malfoy and Malfoy had made his very dramatic exit (actually, she still wanted to punch him). Madam Pomfrey had checked her temperature and permitted her to head back to her room, since classes had already ended and dinner was nearing. Hermione had then walked slowly to her room, her mind filled with troubling thoughts that made her guilt poke and jab at her like children with sticks to roadside road kill (even some angry ones at Malfoy and her own self) and didn't even bother to stop by the Gryffindor common room to tell Harry and Ron that she was out. Instead, she went ahead to her room in a misty trance, and when she finally broke out of it, she couldn't even recall her path there.

To her great disappointment and shame, all her thoughts were about the Herbology incident and Draco Malfoy. She thought about it constantly – even if she didn't want to, which bugged her – and it brought her greater remorse each time. The thoughts that encircled her mind were never new, though she had analyzed again and again, more determined each time to find some way to clear her name. But instead it ate her up inside, slowly but very quickly at the same time, and she didn't realize it until she had just suddenly started to tear up, tangle-throated, in the middle of lunch in the Great Hall. Of course, she hadn't sobbed or anything of the sort for it wasn't in her nature to be so melodramatic, but she'd had to excuse herself before anyone could take notice or before the guilt would volcanically erupt.

She ran to Moaning Myrtle's deserted bathroom and had a good cry there, despite the inconsideration the ghost bestowed upon her when she taunted her about the incident, which she surprisingly knew all about. Hermione had wanted to hex her, but she remembered that ghosts couldn't feel the effect of hexes. So when she was sure that lunch had ended, she had straightened herself up and intentionally walked out of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom without a goodbye, causing Myrtle to throw a tantrum and flood another toilet.

She was ashamed, obviously. And she hated Malfoy for his participation in this entire mess, but she realized that none of it could be helped or made better, which made her feel even worse. Forget Malfoy. She _could_ have saved those people in the greenhouse that day. She could have prevented them from becoming wholly stunned and being kept in the infirmary until Professor Snape finished concocting the serum. There had been so many opportunities for her to whip out her wand, said a blasted spell, even a simple "_Immobilus_" and, in the clichéd terms, "saved the day," but she hadn't.

Now, one must understand Hermione Granger. Normally she was fair with her emotions – she usually never let them control her, as she was a sensible girl, even if she was a little crazy. But there was just something about the past situation that really got to that sore spot in her heart. Something that had plunged her down to an all-time low. All she knew was: she had failed as a Head Girl; it was undeniable. As a student of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As a human being. But, as expected, her self-hating and disgrace (or, in other words, emo-ness) was not to go unnoticed.

Harry had been the first to notice her odd behavior, since he knew about Hermione's past of… well, being a little barmy in the head. He had just reassured her and patted her back, even talking to her sometimes when he knew that she was thinking those same guilty thoughts during meals. But though he had the best intentions and she told him that she didn't blame herself for the incident, she was a liar and she had a perfectly good reason to lie to one of her best friends. She knew that if she did confess to him the whole truth and explained everything, he still wouldn't understand just because he was a sickeningly good friend. He would never see it from her shoes. He didn't understand because he wanted to be there to tell her that it wasn't her fault. So she kind of hated him for that.

Ron was still absolutely clueless and only observed her when Harry brought it up and Ron felt obligated to – since he was her friend – but just told her simply that she shouldn't feel so down and then went ahead and started on the meal. Hermione didn't feel as comforted by that easy statement as Harry made her feel, even though she knew that she shouldn't care. Harry tried; Ron didn't when he felt that he wouldn't receive anything out of it, and therefore it was not worth any of his effort and time. It was the natural order of things.

Ginny, Hermione noticed, had taken to watching her closely, even when she was with Seamus, which was disturbing because even a relationship pariah like Hermione knew that significant others deserved attention, too. Ginny had tried a couple of times when they were alone to get Hermione to talk about what was _really_ troubling her, but Hermione always succeeded in changing the subject to something interesting like human-animal Transfiguration gone wrong and resulting in half-body mutations.

But it turned out that Hermione had underestimated Ginny, and that the young Weasley was not as daft as she thought (much unlike her brother). Now, and it rather disturbed her at times, Ginny observed her and was always by her side, always trying to get her to open up or trying to come up with some conclusions and assumptions of her peculiar behavior. This caused Hermione to become slightly weary of the redhead's company.

Professor Snape also felt the need to remark on her lack of persistent answers and raised hands and barked at her to see Madam Pomfrey one day, explaining no particular reason at all. Hermione, too tired to object and not wanting to cause a scene (although she'd had no problem causing scenes in the dungeon before), had just begrudgingly gathered her stuff and went out the door, leaving the class's eyes wide and eyebrows raised.

Professor McGonagall eyed her suspiciously during class when she, too, noticed the stiff absence of her eagerness to answer questions in her class, and asked her a question one day about a famous witch who had created an even more famous theory in the wizarding world.

"I don't know," Hermione had replied, and, in all honesty, she didn't really care at the time. It was then that gasps were heard all around the room.

And thus, started the rumors.

After McGonagall had asked to speak with her a bit after class and Hermione entered the Great Hall, she heard the vast room buzz more excitedly than she had ever heard this year. As she passed, she saw people point and look at her, but smugly paid no mind to them (don't kid yourself – Hermione _was_ conceited), simply making her way to her usual spot. She sat next to Harry and Ron with Ginny uneasily but politely smiling at her.

Hermione was not in anyway amused of all the rumors that were being thrown around the halls and houses. They were all ridiculous and preposterously stupid, and she had told them so after another rumor had been passed along that had irked her beyond her usual scale of annoyance. She insisted that she was just fine and that the rumors were all false – in an effort to clear her name and get them off her back – but they did not cease and desist there, not even for a moment. She knew then that her peers had certainly been born without the word "Mercy" in their vocabulary.

That was when she realized that a way to really clear her name, stop the rumors, and then therefore wipe them all out from existence, would be if she went back to her bossy and know-it-all self. Though she wanted to, she didn't think she had the energy to. The lack of the appropriate amount of sleep each night was catching up to her at a very fast pace. Even her natural defiance to the order of things was stubbed out because she was so tired.

It seemed, from her observation, that the only person who hadn't pestered or talked to her all week was the Head Boy: Draco Malfoy. At the mention of him, Hermione felt a twinge of anger, but didn't understand why he hadn't made the effort to call her "Mudblood" the last few days. She knew that he was still sore at her, and she was obviously still sore at him (and she had every right to be). Though she had caught him looking at her in class or at meals sometimes, she just shrugged it off as him thinking his usual pure-blood, malicious thoughts about her (probably plotting her doom, or something equally Slytherin of the sort) and she continued to wallow in her guilt and faults, once in a while even cursing him, for this was also his fault, too, that damn bastard. And that he better _hope_ that she didn't catch him alone in the hall – who knows what she'd do then.

But soon, it wasn't as much as anger anymore, that sore feeling she had towards Malfoy. It had evolved into something much more, and the anger had really turned out to be a wolf in sheep's clothing. Now, much to Hermione's delight, guilt and more hurting emotions were swirling and attaching hands with the so-called anger, making a bond.

Hermione, feeling more on autopilot today than any other day, skipped her daily peek out her window and went straight to getting herself prepared and straightened up, even though she never put much of an effort on prettying herself up for the boys.

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Draco neatly straightened out his collar as he was in the process of tidily tying his tie. He smirked, smugly content, as the mirror stayed silent. He had silenced the poor thing weeks ago when it kept making unnecessary comments, for he savored silence in his room. Sure, he fancied having something remind him of how ridiculously good-looking he was, but not when he was trying to concentrate on his Potions essay due the next day. And so, being ill and short-tempered (as he _was_ a Malfoy), he shut the thing up with a simple spell, and slept very, very well that very night and the nights that followed.

But as Draco's gaze was steady and firm on knotting his tie perfectly, his thoughts were wandering aimlessly yet again, but meandering around – like a fat child around the candy section of the market – on one particular person.

He had never thought of her before, at least, not this much. She was a person he didn't care about but cared enough to remind her of her filthy blood whenever he could, just to rub it in her face. She never appealed to him in any way, except when she had appeared in the Yule ball in fourth year, when he had found her moderately decent-looking (he shuddered to think of that other word) and not so filthy, though he'd never voice such a sinful thought aloud. As a boy, he'd always thought that there were spies lurking around, watching pure-bloods like him for any mistakes, sort of like Pure-blood Patrol. And that they'd immediately pounce on him if he would even think something rose-tinted about Muggles or Mudbloods.

Of course, he didn't believe that now. But he still got the feeling every now and then. It was definitely the kind of thing to keep a bloke on his toes.

But lately, when he was not thinking of new insults, ways to make every Gryffindor's life a living hell, or thinking about his assignments and Dumbledore's new plan that he had pitched to them days ago, he found himself thinking about… her. Mudblood Granger. Despite the Pure-blood Patrol. Somehow, he found that he could not help it.

Sometimes he would wake after a reoccurring, despicable dream and flashback to that day in the hospital wing on the day of the incident. He remembered that his heart would be racing at an unfamiliarly fast pace and his thoughts would be swarming yet again with the disgustingly doe-eyed, snarky girl. His dreams and conscious never allowed him to walk through a day without sparing at least one thought of her, and the more he hated it, the more he persisted to forget, the more he couldn't.

He had never felt sorry or bad for anyone, especially when it involved him inflicting the emotional pain… but he couldn't help but feel guilty and even sort of ashamed when he had thought back to that day. He had hurt her (even though that had been what he had sort of wanted to do – and hey, she _deserved_ it, all right? Why couldn't she just stop being such a psychotic bint and just _shut up_ sometimes? He just couldn't understand why that was so _hard_ for her to _do_), and after that, a fresh batch of alien and unknown feelings and emotions had appeared on his doorstop that he couldn't push away even if he tried.

That was why he couldn't bring himself to taunt her these past few days. If he had said something incredibly rude or even moderately mean, he would feel as low as dirt. It was something his father would do, not him. It was like kicking a dying puppy.

And Draco Malfoy, though cold and terrible, was not as heartless as that.

But he did fight it with everything he had. His pride, his logic, his biting sarcasm, his ego, and all of the reasons he had conjured up while an uneventful patrol one evening as he strolled through the halls with high shoulders and his pure-blood regality. He involuntarily cringed every time someone brought her up in class, and walked away from the chitchat parading the ridiculous rumors.

Somewhere deep inside him, he knew why she was acting the way she was, and he felt… bad. Really, self-consciously, horribly bad. He saw her each day, whether it was watching her wretched appearance during a meal or class, or on their occasional meet-up on their assigned patrolling night – which they had been miserably partnered for, since they were both Heads – and it struck something inside him, deep inside. He guessed that it was because he hadn't expected it to get to her _that_ badly. For Merlin sakes, she looked absolutely _terrible_. She didn't even _try_ to comb her hair anymore (did she even – never mind). Did she even _look_ in the mirror now? But – Granger was a strong girl, wasn't she? She was the loony S.P.E.W. creator. Of course she would have more self-confidence than that. She was one of those radicals – those hippies, that don't believe in… combing their hair.

After all, he had been having a bad day, himself. She had just been on the receiving end of his foul mood. He knew very well that she deserved what she got, for if she had just shut up and let him do what he had been sent to do (check up on her, on orders of the Headmaster), he would've come and gone without a word. No drama or spitting would have been required. But no – she just had to open her little firecracker mouth and start attacking him like some bloody barrister on the defense of a guilty client.

All in all, he just hadn't expected her to be affected like so. She was Hermione Granger, after all, Insufferable Know-it-all. She didn't sway to insults or words, at least, not really. He had just forgotten that she was human, and well, could he really be blamed? She did have superhuman traits about her (and no, this was not a compliment) that amazed even the Great Merlin himself, ergo the nickname Super Mudblood Draco had one day materialized. She just wasn't the sort, which disturbed him. Yeah, at first he'd been ecstatic as hell for one of his ultimate goals in life had been to really break her down (just to prove that he could)… but it was a sad sort of goal, he realized. She was just pathetic now. She didn't fight him anymore. Sometimes he even just wanted to hit her over the head and just tell her to get over it already. Or shove a bunch of anti-depressants into her drink.

He normally felt nothing at all about his wrongdoings, for there were too many of them, and if he did feel something he probably would have killed himself by now because it was so monstrous. But he was _born_ a wicked child, so he was immune to guilt and other conscience-related gab.

He was a Malfoy, and he didn't feel anything except for glory and power. And wealth, if it was an exceedingly large amount. That was his argument each time, besides the obvious "But she's a Mudblood!" retaliation. He felt ashamed. A Malfoy thinking about stupid Mudblood Granger as often as he was? It was just too sad.

He absentmindedly ran his long fingers through his hair, giving his tie one final tug. He sighed, pushing his thoughts of the dreadful girl away, before he turned and pulled on his sweatshirt. He was silent as he prepared himself for the day, determined to make her pained eyes fade from his memories.

oooo

Hermione felt their eyes on her again as she poked at her oatmeal. She hadn't had a single bite during the past twenty minutes she had been here, partly because of the reason that she hadn't had an appetite these last few days, and partly because they had been staring at her like a frighteningly attentive student buzzed on caffeine. She noticed the weak conversations, the way they had asked her questions in an effort to make her talk, and not to mention the way Harry had been trying to make her laugh with preposterously bad jokes all morning.

Her answers had been quiet and simple — so simple that she heard the disappointment in their "Oh" afterwards. She didn't enjoy that her friends were worrying so much about her that they were devoting breakfast to making her feel better or open up, and she knew that their intentions were entirely good and pure, but she was getting sick of it. She felt uneasy, and usually she was too tired to feel uneasy, but today they were going to an extreme to make her feel uncomfortable.

She was just about to tell them so, but her lips were clamped back together as she heard an explosive shout.

"That's it!" She jumped as Ron suddenly exploded. She looked up, disturbed by the sudden outburst. Ron's face was red with anger and his blue eyes were dim with annoyance. "I'm sick and tired of this. Hermione, just bloody tell us what the _hell_ is wrong with you so we can get on with our lives!"

Hermione's eyes widened at his remark.

Harry was also very surprised by his eruption, and was now trying to calm Ron down.

"No!" Ron said to Harry, but his finger was now pointing at Hermione. "I've been bloody sitting here, making an attempt to finally get her to crack, but she's a stubborn and lying git so she ignores us!"

Hermione stared at him, her mouth open, but she quickly closed it as she felt her anger rising. "You listen here, Ron," she said to him, infuriated. "I didn't ask for your attention and I never asked you to make an effort to try to get me to tell you what's wrong, so don't start insulting me — and _point_ that bloody finger somewhere else —" she fumed, hitting his pointed finger aside, Ron's eyes blazing brighter. "And I told you! There is _nothing_ wrong with me! So just stop bloody watching me like I'm some freak show, because what you're looking for is not there!"

Just then, Ron stood, very, very, very angry. This caused the whole Gryffindor table to quiet down and watch them in curiosity. The other tables also then noticed the sudden lack of volume, turned, and craned their necks to see what was happening. The Slytherin table looked over, disturbed by the raucous, and a wildly interested Draco Malfoy turned his attention over to the obvious spat going on between Weasley and Granger.

He heard the beginning of a betting pool start to fuss as Blaise Zabini started to wave money in the air.

He was preparing to bet some heavy money on Granger. He'd have slapped down a few galleons if it had been someone else than Blaise Zabini managing it (he hated the fool). But he prayed there would also be bloodshed. Gryffindor blood – _perfect_ décor for this school. Oooh! What fun! He could practically feel the tingles of excitement creeping up the nape of his neck. Crabbe and Goyle began to laugh beside him and he elbowed them. "Shut up," Draco hissed as somebody passed a few Knuts in front of him. "I want to hear this."

"Just shut up, Hermione!" seethed Ron. "You're lying, and we all can see it! Just stop feeling sorry for yourself and tell us, or else just bloody move on for all of our sakes!"

Hermione gasped, so highly offended that as she stood as well, her anger rivaling his. "How _dare_ you, Ron Weasley?" she shouted at him. "How dare you speak to me in such a manner! And I'm _not_ feeling sorry for myself, Ron! You don't know that at all! If you'd pay attention once in a while and just halt for one single moment from stuffing your face with food, then you'd see!"

Gasps were heard all around the Great Hall, as were some nods and agreements. A whistle came from somewhere around them.

"You know what you're doing?" he said, pointing his shaking finger at her again, ignoring her crude remark. "You're just doing this for _attention_! That's it, isn't it? You're just doing this to make everyone feel sorry about you and _shower_ you with attention and sympathy!"

"You're accusing _me_ of wanting attention?" she shrieked. "Ron, you can take the attention and shove it up your arse because I don't _need_ it!"

More gasps were heard. She even heard some high-fives echoing from inside the Hall. There was a monotone "Oooooh!" and tittering.

"We can see right through you, Hermione!" Ron shouted, red-faced. "All of us! You're acting like this because you want us to devote every sodding minute of every day on comforting you —"

Just then, she heard calls from the staff table behind her, telling them to calm down and cease their arguing. But Hermione, too enraged to listen, had her own idea of how to end this argument.

"I never asked!" she screamed. "I never bloody asked! And you know what? I _hate_ it! I absolutely hate it! Do you think I like people spreading ridiculous rumors about me? Do you think I like people staring and whispering about me? Do you think that I like my friends watching me like I'm some mutated animal and make lame attempts to try and pry into me? Do you? Because I'll tell you the truth now, Ron! I'm _confessing_, just what you wanted! You can take the damn attention and this argument and shove it because this is _clearly_ a waste of my energy and time!"

And with Ron staring at her, shocked and wide-eyed, and the teachers shouting threats of detention in the background, she grabbed her book bag, swung her legs over the bench, and stormed right out of the Great Hall with a furious fire burning in her eyes.

Silence echoed in the Great Hall.

Her peers watched her, wide-eyed and amazed by her behavior until she disappeared from the doors. They all looked back at Ron, who was still speechless. His face was now blushing so hotly that at once everyone thought, uncannily, 'Roasted tomato.'

To them, it was obvious who had won that one.

Just then, someone started to clap loudly with enthusiasm, which quickly evolved into a thunderous applause that boomed from the Great Hall with whoops and shouts of praise. Ron slowly sat down, defeated, as he glared at Harry, who was also clapping and laughing, shaking his head, repeating that he had told him not to start with her.

Even the professors over at the Staff table were applauding, amused, unable to resist from the stellar performance of Hermione Granger.

(Even Severus Snape, the Potions master, the professor with the greasy mop of hair and frighteningly sallow skin found himself smirking at the irony of the trio turning on each other.)

Albus Dumbledore stood, three new galleons glittering in his pocket, raising his hands and lowering them as a signal for the students to quiet down, not saying a word, just smiling his jolly smile, and silenced the hall.


	5. Hermione's Dizzy Spells

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. If I did, the possibilities would be endless, as would the cash flow and whatnot, and I would be almost sinfully famous. But my cash flow has been dry for quite some time now and the possibilities have always been quite few and unfortunately, I am not sinfully famous. So, I don't own Harry Potter. J.K. Rowling does. Check out her cash flow.

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Thank you to you.

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**Chapter Five: Hermione's Dizzy Spells**

Needless to say, Hermione and Ron both ignored each other for the rest of the day and about three days after that, until Harry got fed up with the tense silences and tersely asked them to put a stop to it. He also informed them that their little childish spat wasn't helping anyone, anyone at all, while Hermione only jutted out her chin in a petulant way and Ron grumbled.

Ron, however, who was still very sore at her and held grudges for far too long, spoke to Harry about Hermione's lack of human emotion right in front of her, acting as if she was invisible. And Hermione, undoubtedly angry that Ron had the nerve to speak that way about her to Harry right in front of her face, (and not to forget the fact that he did it in a way that made it seem as if she _wasn't_ there beside Harry at all) spoke to Harry the same way.

And thus, the day went on as dreadfully long as it could, with Harry's best friends ignoring each other one minute as if the other was less than a speck of dirt, and then spent the next lunging at each other's throat. It was an all-out war with Ron and Hermione, and Harry was starting to get a bit nervous that their peers would begin making those stupid buttons again like they had with his rivalry with Cedric in their fourth year during the Triwizard tournament.

When they were alone, Harry spoke to Hermione about the topic in a weary tone and almost implored for her to apologize. In return, Hermione looked at him in edgy annoyance, her eyes flashing with spite.

"_Me_? _Apologize_? Why should _I_ be the one to apologize?" she huffed, enraged by Harry's question. "What are you playing at? You're on _his_ side, aren't you? Bloody hell, Harry, you're always on his side! I don't even know why I'm surprised!" she scoffed, leaving a baffled Harry behind as she stormed past him. Harry shook himself from his momentary shock as he called after her and ran to catch up.

"No, Hermione! I'm _not_ on his side! I'm just saying it so that you and Ron can be friends again – not because _you're_ the one at fault! Please, Hermione! You and Ron have been ignoring each other and then bickering and it's driving me insane!" Because it kind of really was.

Hermione skidded to a stop, whirling around and looking Harry intensely in the eye, her dainty jaw clenched. "Harry, I'm _not_ going to apologize," she sternly said to him. Harry sighed in defeat. "And I'm sorry that you're caught in the middle, but Harry, he's _wrong_ and I can't just give in and prove to him that I _need_ his friendship! He'll hold that against me for _years_!"

"But you _do_ need his friendship!" said Harry, almost desperately but with an obvious fraying temper. "Just like I need yours and his, and he needs yours and mine! Just please, Hermione! You two are acting like children! This is the last thing we need!" Harry sighed again, running his fingers through his raven hair before he added on, "Especially now."

Hermione closed her eyes for a quick second, composing herself, and when she looked at Harry again, he was surprised to see that same angry glint to be gone. Her features had softened and her eyes were dark as she shifted her book bag uneasily on her shoulder. She had a sympathetic look about her, and she didn't look hard and cold like before, but soft and concerned. Like the old Hermione. Like the Hermione who didn't go off having public rows smack dab in the middle of the Great Hall and hadn't made Seamus four Knuts richer.

"Harry…"

"Look, Hermione, I know I've never shared much about my training with Remus… but it's been hard. Not just physically. I've learned some things… about what's to happen when I face Him, and I just really need both you and Ron... to stick together. To be there for me."

Hermione sighed, knowing very well that she had a weak spot for Harry. It was true that he never shared much about his training with Professor Lupin, and so it was a vulnerable and touchy subject when he did bring it up. Especially now. From the look on his face, the burdens really were weighing heavily on him, and it pained her heart to see him look at her that way.

But he was asking her to back out, and she realized that this was one of those times her aunt was talking about. They called her aunt quite barmy, of course, what with all of her protests and her jail records for protesting, but she'd always told Hermione about how the males were always trying to oppress them by telling them what they could and could not do. Males were superior to females in the world, and the thought of proving so, of being the one to give in like some weak simp, made her shake with anger.

She was not just doing this for herself. She was taking a stand. For all helpless girls everywhere who were daily oppressed by men who thought they were better, superior. Men like Ronald Weasley.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she said.

Harry looked at her confusedly, not understanding why she had to be making this so difficult. Hermione comprehended his look. She knew he wouldn't understand. He couldn't possibly care about her wanting to prove her worth to the human race and showing that women had the strength and power to stand without the help of friendly obligated males. If she told him that by refusing to apologize she hoped to become an inspiration, sort of like Joan of Arc, he wouldn't understand. He had a hero complex. It was a given. He'd only think that she was mad.

Which she kind of was.

But – to him, she was just a sidekick. Just like Ron, but even worse, because she was a female and therefore useless because she wasn't brawny and had not a lick of interest in stupid Quidditch and couldn't ride a _broom_.

"I really am. But I… I just can't be the one to apologize to him again. You've seen it, Harry," she explained, showing indignation, "I've always been the one to approach him and offer my apology even when he was the one who was acting like a prick. I'm tired of being the weak one when I'm-I'm _not_. I'm _not_ going to give in this time. I'm sorry." She paused thoughtfully. "But listen," she smiled kindly at him, and Harry oddly realized that this was the first time she had smiled around him in days. "If it makes it any easier, you don't have to be my friend, for the time being."

Harry's face morphed into an expression of perplexity.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, confused.

"I mean," she squeezed Harry's shoulder, "I know how Ron's really important to you, and this might go on for a while…. You feel torn between us. And I'm letting go. I'm not pulling at you anymore. Just go with Ron. You don't have to speak to me or anything during this feud, and I understand."

Hermione could hear how stupid she sounded, but was there really any other way to say it? No other possible choices came to mind. She knew Ron would nag him endlessly if he was still trying to play the middleman, as if he partook in no complete sides but in both sides. She knew Harry knew it as well. It was one of the costs of being friends with a temperamental redhead.

"Wait, what?" Harry asked again, nonplussed. "What do you mean? And I don't have to speak to you?"

Hermione sighed, frustrated. "Oh, let's not go into dramatics here. I mean… just, just go with Ron. I've got Ginny, I'll be fine. You know, whether you try to deny it or not, you're going to have to choose a side. I'll bet Ron will be sore at you and pick an argument at why you're still speaking to me, and like I said, he's really important to you, and I don't want him to have a spat with you too."

Harry frowned, his shoulders slouching, realizing her point. He knew that Ron had already been shooting him some dirty looks whenever he even uttered one word to Hermione, and he had insistently ignored him whenever he brought her up.

"Oh," said Harry dejectedly. "I see."

Hermione sighed as she tried to smile at him reassuringly, though a bit (she had to admit) irked – just a bit, though – that he hadn't objected and offered to be on her side instead. Had not even made the effort. Not even stuttered the beginning of an imploring spiel. But that made sense, didn't it? After all, Ron _was_ the one they'd taken to the bottom of the lake so Harry could rescue him in the Triwizard tournament. She'd been down there too – but for whom to save? Viktor Krum.

Stupid Viktor Krum.

"Listen, Harry, if this goes on far too long that it's pointless, I'll apologize. Don't worry. I've always tried to be reasonable and considerate, that's why I've always been the one to apologize first. . . . And if it really feels horrible for you that you can't stand it any longer, just come find me and tell me. I'll put a stop to it right away" – she hesitated and had to force out the words – "for you."

Harry gave her a slight, lopsided grin, touched by her loyalty and consideration, meanwhile Hermione had to swallow down hard from the bile words she had just said and tried to hide it. "Thanks, Hermione," he said, looking less troubled, but not by much, which was fair enough to Hermione's poor ego. "You know, you really blew us away in the Great Hall. Everyone started to clap. It was amazing. People are still talking about it, you know. You really surprised us. Seamus and Neville are a few Knuts richer, too."

Hermione pressed her lips together tightly and tried to smile, even though she could tell that it wasn't any more convincing than it felt. "Well, I'm glad someone managed to reap some benefits from it," she said, feigning a strong tone. "But, you'd better get on your way to the dormitories. Ron may be looking for you and get suspicious." And before he finds you here with me and clobbers you to death, she wanted to add, but didn't.

Harry nodded, though a bit reluctantly. "All right then," he sighed. "I'll see you around, all right?"

Hermione nodded as she watched Harry brush past her and walk down the corridor without a glance back. He disappeared from her sight and she turned back to the fantastic view of the Astronomy Tower, raising up her hand to the nape of her neck and trying to rub away the knots of tension that had uncomfortably formed there. The whole Ron business had given her back her fire, all right, but she couldn't help but feel that maybe she was only being melodramatic.

But, no. No. Hermione Granger was not a melodramatic person. At all.

She softly frowned, closing her eyes and rolling her neck back, feeling strands of her hair clenched between her fingers and palm. But as she turned, the sunlight warm on her face, she opened her eyes to see the sky painted with blushing pinks, spectacular yellows, and brilliant oranges. The sun was setting, sending bright rays of its goodbye for the day as she looked out, lowering her hand and folding her arms on the balcony arm. She stared out, feeling her heart warm at the sight before her and the thoughts of Ron smearing away into the horizon.

"You know, Granger, continue to speak to Potter that way and I'm afraid he just might not learn his ABCs."

Hermione's small, contented smile froze in place as she recognized the familiar drawl. Her eyes darkened, her face drawing down into an ominous look. "Sod off," she automatically shot out, her manner like venom. She was turning to leave, but that was when she found herself cornered by a narrow pale face. "Move," she said coldly. "You're blocking my way."

"Ah, see, and you're blocking mine. Funny how the world works out, right, Mudblood?"

Hermione felt her temper flare, drawing in a steady breath to keep her from getting too angry too fast. Her brows warningly moved downwards. "I'd ask you what your problem is, Malfoy, but I really don't think all of the words in the English language could sum it up. Now get out of my way. I have nothing else to say to you."

"Greedy Granger," he tutted, smirking at her. "Always thinking about herself. The thought ever cross your mind that perhaps _I_ have something to say to you?"

"Doesn't mean I have to listen to them," she snapped, really getting annoyed with him. Just seeing his face _all up_ in _hers_ made her remember that day in the hospital wing. His words came shouting back at her, and she felt queasy.

"Ever heard of common courtesy?"

"Ever heard of get out of my face?"

"Oooh," he chuckled. "Good one." Then he made a face, disgusted, as he wiped his face. "But next time, Granger, say it, don't spray it. I don't want you contaminating me with your –"

"Look, Malfoy, I am this close to physically injuring you. And that isn't a threat; it's a fact. What do you want?" she demanded. "And if you're only here to further drag me down that hellish pit of yours, then I'm leaving." She began to leave, but then she felt his hand on her arm again, and she whirled around. Her arm began to tingle as she glowered at him.

"Granger, can't you stop being a psychopath for just a second?" he said harshly. He really looked like he meant it.

"Yes, I really could, if you'd just stop breathing and drop dead," she quipped. "Let me ask you something, Malfoy, is that _really_ your sole purpose in life? To make every one of us miserable? Is that really what makes you happy? Because I find that _quite_ _sad_, relying on the failures of other people for your sick amusement when you can just look in the mirror every day and see the biggest failure in the world."

BURN.

The look on his face was priceless. It really was. Hermione Granger wished she could take a picture of it and keep it forever – put it in a locket and wear it around her neck, or make t-shirts and sweatshirts and mugs. And she really hadn't expected to say what she had said at all – or, actually, spit – but it had just come screaming out of her mouth, and instantly after she had said those words she felt an immediate release from the burning inside her chest.

God, he made her life so hard. Why couldn't he just see that? Why couldn't he just – give her a break?

Somewhere in the distance she thought she could hear a sizzling.

"Well, aren't your social ice-breakers pleasurable?" he hissed back, and Hermione could see deep inside his glittering mercury orbs that she had really struck a chord inside him this time. And a part of her really just wanted him to say what he wanted to her – to call her that word she hated so much, to tell her that she didn't belong here, that she deserved to die in the hands of the Dark Lord. Because lately, what with him rescuing her and ceasing his eternal torment on her, she'd been rather uncertain about him – he'd become a dubious subject – and she needed to be reassured that he was still the same Draco Malfoy who hated her. Because he _was_. He was _always_ going to be. And she didn't even know why she questioned his rotten character – it wasn't as if she did it on purpose. It was a subconscious thing. Sometimes you questioned things you didn't want to.

Meanwhile, in Draco Malfoy's world, he was very certain of one thing: he was going to hex her.

When her back was turned.

Or something.

"I'd think twice about thinking so high and mighty about myself if I were you, Granger," he then told her in a scornful tone, calling her numerous things inside his head that he was quite sure would burn the flesh off her face. "Because it seems to me that you're just as nasty as I am. And, you know, I wouldn't talk about monumental failures if I were you, either. There are four bodies in the hospital wing with your name on them."

BURN.

And then he smirked at her. A big, sickening smirk.

"Is that the only reason you came here?" said Hermione, shaking with her anger. "To say that to me?"

"As a matter of fact, I came by here to offer my condolences," he said, although the way he said it made her really doubt it. Hermione didn't even know that Draco Malfoy had condolences to offer in the first place.

"For what?"

"For having such big oafs as friends. And, congratulations, Granger, you're almost as good as a whore." Hermione glared at him as he suddenly took something out of his pocket. There were three gold coins in his hand. He dropped them at her feet, each of them clinking loudly against the floor and shining in the light. "Like I said, _almost_ as good as a whore. You whipped Weasley, but I doubt you can whip anyone else."

And, chuckling, he turned around and walked away.

When he was gone, Hermione bent down, picked up the coins, and threw the coins as far as she could away from the Astronomy Tower, watching them glitter in her anger as the sunset cast its colors on them before all three pieces fell away. She was breathing hard afterwards, panting, suddenly feeling short of breath. She would have thrown them all at Malfoy's big inflated head, but as she looked the way he had gone he had already disappeared.

Hermione gripped the stone arm of the Tower. She felt a little lightheaded now, her eyes fluttering closed, her knees feeling a bit weak.

"_All those all-nighters, Hermione, they can't be good for you. . . ."_ a voice echoed in her head.

When the feeling subsided, she opened her eyes slowly. She began to feel nervous, an ominous gnarling in her stomach. _'Merlin,'_ she thought to herself, _'when did it get like this? It's getting worse.'_

She remembered that she hadn't had a peaceful nightly slumber in weeks. She had tried to fall asleep every night because she was so exhausted, but for some odd, inexplicable reason she found herself only lying awake until it was time to get up again. It was really a strange thing – she'd been able to fall asleep just fine before. And as clever as she was, she just couldn't figure it out. And Hermione was getting worried.

Hermione left the tower and quickly walked to the hospital wing, eager to get to Madam Pomfrey for the potion. Just the thought of a nice and sweet slumber made her progress into a brisk pace and then, eventually, start into a jog. But then Malfoy's scowling face popped up in her head again, and she heard the clang of the coins dropping to her feet, and that triggered an even faster pace, her expression fierce and determined.

She reached the nurse's office out of breath and her pulse pounding in her ears. To her surprise, Dumbledore was there, talking to the school Medi-Witch. They halted their conversation as she walked in, as if it was some confidential business, and Madam Pomfrey looked over at her in curious concern.

"Ah, Miss Granger," Dumbledore greeted her, smiling happily. Hermione caught her breath as she tried to ease it back to its regular pace. "What a joy to see you here. I was just talking to Poppy about you."

"Professor," Hermione nodded. She walked on ahead until she was before the nurse's desk. She could see that her desk was neatly organized with a silver foreign trinket and some picture frames on the front.

Madam Pomfrey observed her quietly. "Yes, Miss Granger?" she asked. "What can I do for you?"

Hermione looked over uneasily to a joyful, grinning Dumbledore, and then turned back to her. "I was wondering if I could have some sleeping draught," Hermione said softly, intending a quiet tone so that their headmaster could not overhear. Luckily enough, Madam Pomfrey nodded and did not ask for her to repeat it.

"Of course," she said. "The professors have been talking about you, Miss Granger. They're very concerned about your condition." Hermione felt her face heat up as she saw Dumbledore nod his head in agreement out of the corner of her eye. "They've noticed how you always seemed tired, and apparently they're right. Very well, then. I'll be back with your draught."

Hermione nodded as the nurse stood, walking out of her office and leaving her alone with their school headmaster. She sighed, feeling slightly uncomfortable.

"You know, Miss Granger, you are an excellent student, believe me when I say so, but studying all night in place of sleeping won't do you any good at all," he smiled.

Hermione felt her face redden, looking over at Dumbledore. "People have told me so," she said, hesitantly. "But that isn't the case now. I study, but… the Sandman seems to be refusing to visit me in the evenings," she laughed nervously.

Then she felt ridiculous – honestly, who talked about the Sandman? What was she, eight? "It isn't very pleasant to be studying when you're weary," she then said, sighing. She then began thinking that maybe she'd brought this on to herself. All that studying – it had really messed her up. This made her even more nervous.

"No, of course not," he agreed. Just then, he cleared his throat. "Now, on other matters, Miss Granger, I was just wondering how far you've gone with my plan."

Hermione looked at him, baffled. "Plan?" she asked, confused.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Yes, from our Heads meeting several weeks ago. You and Mister Malfoy were present, if I remember correctly," he merrily joked.

Hermione froze as she suddenly remembered.

_Shit._

"Oh," she said weakly, embarrassed. "Yeah, your plan. I remember."

"Yes, how is that going?" he inquired. "Mister Malfoy isn't giving you trouble, I hope?"

Hermione shook her head quickly. "No, no of course not," she said hurriedly, too flustered to tell the truth. Maybe it might have been better to say yes, though, to make it sound more realistic. "But we've been a bit behind on the plans and we still have to consult the prefects, but I'll assure you we'll catch up and get everything on track," she promised. "I am terribly sorry, Headmaster. We forgot, and with the whole Herbology incident—"

Dumbledore waved his hand, motioning to her that she needn't go on. "No need for the apology, Miss Granger," he smiled. "I trust your word and I know very well that everyone forgets. I know the Herbology accident left things sort of unstable for everyone, and I do expect that you and Mister Malfoy will get things done. After all, I believe that I chose the Head Boy and Girl correctly. You and Mister Malfoy make an excellent team, and I'm sure you'll blow us all away." His grin was broad against his wrinkled, happy face. Hermione even wondered if she'd ever seen this man sad, in the back of her mind.

But – her and Malfoy a _team_? An _excellent_ team? Who was he fooling?

Uh, definitely not her.

Hermione nodded, trying to swallow the sudden dryness that plagued the walls of her mouth. "We'll try our best," she croaked. Dumbledore continued to smile, and Hermione heard the oncoming footsteps of Madam Pomfrey with her requested sleeping draught.

"That's all I ask for," he assured her.

Hermione nodded again, frantically trying to think of how they were going to get things done quickly enough. Uncannily, her heart was pounding.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione looked up to see Madam Pomfrey with a blue bottle in her hands enter her office. She walked up to her.

"Take this right before you head to bed, and you'll be just fine."

Hermione took the bottle and thanked her. She bid their headmaster and their nurse goodbye before she headed out of the office and then exited the vast oaken doors of the infirmary, sighing with relief as the doors closed firmly behind her. She pressed her back against the cool wood, closing her eyes and biting her lip, hearing indistinct mumbles through the door as they resumed their conversation.

Then, out in the empty corridor, she broke into a run.


	6. Forty Winks of Relief

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: If I were J.K. Rowling, I'd own Harry Potter. I would also own some millionaire empire and some rad writing skills. And I would also own the copyrights to the books. And I would also own Draco Malfoy. But, as you can see, I'm (obviously) not, so I don't own any of the above. I am merely another daydreamer that dreams of Draco and Hermione getting together… soon.

**Forty Winks of Relief**

And that is why, boys and girls, one should never lie, because then one is suddenly handed a barrage of work to do. Example? Hermione Granger's predicament. It was actually quite sad, the way she ran all the way back to her dormitories and collided into a poor Hufflepuff first year who Hermione had scared the living wits out of by yelling at her to get out of the _sodding_ way. Of course, what could she expect from a first year? She didn't get out of the way; hence, it involved a tangle of limbs and legs and loads of hair and cursing. A very degrading moment for Hermione Granger. Swearing at a first year? _Hufflepuff_? Not Head Girl behavior at all. It was _Draco Malfoy_ behavior. Then the frightening thought occurred that he might be rubbing off on her and almost made her want to throw up all over the marble floors.

She worked furiously and relentlessly that night, only taking the sleeping draught two hours before it was time to rise up yet again for another busy day at Hogwarts. She made notes, her quill constantly scratching against the parchment in great haste and thought. She thought of the design, the plans, and the different sections that would beckon and welcome every person from every House and every year to come and read it. She had even grabbed an old issue of the Daily Prophet from her waste can and reread it, observing every little detail. For it was also the very insignificant buttons that made up the extravagant coat of newspaper – unimportant but vital in keeping it all together and managed.

She noted down the different sections: from entertainment to business and world events to mate searches. And when she had thought she had done enough and covered everything that she could, she looked over her five scrolls of notes and made even more corrections.

After she had made sure that everything was correct and precise, and she was satisfied, she neatly folded it up and placed it on her desk before capping her inkbottle and setting her quill back on its stand. She fished out the bottle from her drawer, sighing loudly, reading over the slightly blurred directions on the back label.

She took the directed dose of the draught, swallowing down, trying not to gag as the bile and sour liquid horribly pinched the taste buds in her mouth and scorched her parched throat. The effects immediately took place, however, sparing poor loony Hermione any further pain. Feeling a warm and soothing sensation ripple throughout her weary body, she slid underneath her heavy covers and snuggled against her pillow.

In mere minutes, she was free from the anxieties of her stressful planning and her other plans for the next day and the inscrutable bum-pincher called Her Life.

oooo

Hermione woke up to the sound of her alarm singing to her as it noisily rattled and shook on her dresser. She groggily reached over, hitting the button and accidentally sending it over, hearing the tinny crash as it fell and broke instantly.

"Ooh, that'll need fixing," she mumbled to herself drowsily, slowly pushing off her covers in slow, zombie-like movements, her eyelids at a weighty half-mast. She blindly untangled her warm legs from her sheets as she yawned and stretched, raising her arms heavenwards. She then tried to rub the sleep from her eyes before she heard a sudden loud tapping that stridently shattered the cool silence of her room.

She blearily looked over to the direction where the noise was coming from and found a tan and flint-colored owl flapping its wings outside her window. She squinted, trying to recognize the owl, before shaking her head at the notion, getting up and walking over to the window. She unlatched the window and let the owl in before the owl brutally and surprisingly pecked her, and Hermione growled at him in response, due to her unattractively grumpy mood.

"What is it, you bloody owl?" she croaked, scowling as the owl snapped at her finger with its beak as she tried to untie the letter from its leg. "Hold still!" she commanded, finally getting the letter before the owl could peck at her again.

Her eyes read over the short letter quickly. It held simple instructions from Madam Pomfrey.

Apparently, the sleeping potion wouldn't wear off until she drank another potion, and the nurse had forgotten to tell her this fact when she had been in the hospital wing the other day. Never mind scorning her inconvenient and clumsy forgetfulness (it was very unbecoming of their nurse, but maybe it was only because of her age?), she was just relieved that Madam Pomfrey had remembered – she couldn't bear to imagine how many enemies she'd have by the end of the day with her crankiness.

Hermione quickly folded it back up and she reached forward to the bitter owl, noticing the red bottle hanging on its other leg. It snapped at her again as Hermione yelped and reprimanded at it before successfully untying the bottle.

Hermione glowered at the owl as it hooted back at her disdainfully. She read over the instructions on the bottle, wordily titled _Awakening and Energy Renewing Potion For the Very Exhausted._ After she had read its trouble-free orders, she looked back at the owl that was watching her with its dark, beady eyes. It hooted at her, and a deep-set frown trickled across her face.

"Shoo, you sodding owl," Hermione sourly said, rudely trying to push it back out the window. "Do you really expect me to welcome your stay here after you've tried to bite off my finger three times? I've got nothing for you here. Besides, its almost breakfast back at the Owlery." The owl flapped its wings; still trying to peck at Hermione, but quickly went on its way at her words about breakfast.

Hermione closed the window and turned the lock before hurriedly drawing the curtains closed. She went and drank one quick gulp after uncapping the crimson bottle, and she twisted her face from the tart and unpleasant taste, feeling it tartly burn her throat. She shivered as she felt a surge of frosty tingles creep up her spine and crackle through her fingers. She then shook her head and shrugged her shoulders, trying to dismiss the lingering quivers from the tonic. She smiled widely at the result as she soon felt the shivers fade.

She sighed to herself, entirely thrilled of this new sensation and energy that she was certain she hadn't had in ages. _'I could really get used to this,'_ she happily thought to herself. She walked to her closet to grab a fresh set of clothes, cheerily smiling and humming to herself. This was surely the best she'd felt in months.

oooo

She walked to the Great Hall with an extra bounce in her step, smiling widely at everyone she passed. She had even taken extra time in the care of her outer appearance, as she had tamed her hair into shiny waves, applied perfume and faint touches of make-up, even though her products were quite scarce. She'd never been one to really care about lipstick (which was actually made out of fish scales) or eye shadow or any of that girly rubbish. Realizing that, she concluded it was only then reasonable, more so than it was offending, that she was a pariah compared to the population of mascara-ed, hormone-distributing females in the castle.

She walked in with unusually bright eyes and high spirits as she looked over towards the Gryffindor table, grinning as she spotted Ginny waving her over. Hermione walked towards Ginny and sat down beside her, but as she looked over across of her, her mood was slightly dampened as she remembered the sticky predicament she had gotten herself into.

She'd caught a glimpse of Ron's unmistakable copper fuzz and Harry's dark head and impulsively turned her head to watch them. Looking over all the way at the other edge of the table, her efforts were in vain as she only saw Ron and Harry sitting by Dean and Neville, talking and laughing with such carefree morale. Hermione wanted to spit at their oh-bliss-and-bubbles morale, but conjured up a faint smile as she caught Harry's eye and he grinned at her, raising his hand halfway to secretly wave to her. Hermione nodded, trying to smile wider but finding that it was near impossible to before turning back to Ginny, who was sipping from her goblet.

"My brother's a git, I know," she suddenly said, as if reading Hermione's thoughts.

"Aces to that," she bitterly replied, though a part of her knew that this was one of those moments where she as actually not supposed to agree _aloud_, merely just nod her head. She'd forgotten that Ginny was his sister – a real moronic moment for Hermione, for she _had_ said "_My_ _brother_." Hermione shook her head at herself, fidgeting in her seat as she reached over for an orange to eat. She felt her stomach wasn't settled enough to eat something solid. For, were she to pass by Ronald Weasley, she just might – perchance – throw it up all over him.

Thinking that thought, Hermione couldn't help but let out the beginning quirks of an impish smile.

"What?" asked Ginny, catching her smirk.

"Nothing," said Hermione. "Just thinking about… books."

Quite pathetic to be smirking at books, but Ginny didn't see anything suspicious about it for it was a well-known fact that Hermione's love of books surpassed even the notion of sanity itself. So Ginny recovered from that awkward moment of digestion as best as she could by blinking.

"Right. Anyway, I told him that it wasn't right for him to keep Harry away from you, but he only insisted that it was Harry who was keeping _himself_ away from you." Ginny shook her head, setting down her cup, "He's an impossible, brain-dead wanker. You're better off without him."

Hermione peeled her orange. "Absolutely."

Ginny nodded vigorously. "You see, Hermione, I think it's this friendship thing between you. The _bond_," she said, emphasizing it by cutting haphazardly into her breakfast. "It creates attachment."

"And attachment equals death," Hermione said. "Got it."

"No, not necessarily," said Ginny. "I just mean it's a bloody pain in the arse, but not really death. It's pain, not death. It just makes it difficult, but in the same way, it makes things better too, am I right?"

Hermione placed the pieces of orange peels on the other side of her plate as she skeptically furrowed her brows. "Maybe. But let's not talk about him so early in the day, all right?" Hermione firmly proposed. "He's going to ruin it all for me. The one day that I feel positively cheerful, and we start off the day with the conversation topic of your brother? It's like rubbing salt against the wound. Or…" she took a sip of her juice. "Acid."

Yes, definitely acid.

Ginny only grinned at her friend, relieving a mildly internally febrific Hermione. "Yes, I've noticed that you're aglow this morning," Ginny complimented. Hermione flashed her a beatific smile, finally finishing off her orange and separating the pieces.

"So, what happened? These past days, I hope you don't mind me saying, but you've been… mean, cranky and absolutely wretched. It's those all-nighters, isn't it? I told you they're bad for your health." She lowered her gaze. "And your social life," she then mumbled. "Really, Hermione, we've got to do something about your… reputation. Spinster reputation."

"Spinster?"

"Yes, _exactly_," said Ginny, pounding her fist against the table, "see what I mean? _Spinster_? I was thinking maybe we could, oh, I don't know, give you a make-over, and make your hair not so frizzy." She looked hopeful.

"No, Ginny," said Hermione. "No. I am not your Barbie doll. I won't let you manipulate me into –"

"Whoa, Hermit, what's-what's a Barbie? Never mind, that's not important, but no one's trying to manipulate you here. I'm only saying. This is our last year. Viktor Krum's writing letters to you about his new _girlfriend_ –"

Hermione's eyes widened. "How do you _know_ about that?"

"Not important," she said. "But do you see how incredibly lame that is, Hermione? A bloke writing to you about another _girl_? That's shameful to the female society. We've got to do something about you. When I look at you, do you know what I feel?"

"_Joy_ that I don't go around telling you that you're incredibly lame?" Hermione suggested.

"—Sadness, and even a little nausea. Just a little, though."

Hermione was giving her the most confused and incredulous of looks – this stuff was just _mean_. Was she trying to get back at her for saying that stuff about her brother, because she'd only said 'Aces to that', and had not really started whipping out the big guns like she was.

"Oh, Ginny," she said, a bit pained. "If I had a sharper knife…" Because this wasn't what she was supposed to be hearing right now. Was her friend _trying_ to shove her into depression? Wait – was there a hint going on here? Ron… Ginny… Did they all want her to _kill_ herself? Oh, this was just sad. Not just sad, but _monumentally_ sad.

Ginny nodded, getting her point. "Oh. Right. But just think about it, right?" she said, edging the butter knives away from her.

Hermione reached over for her cup, raising it to her lips and taking a long, long drink.

oooo

Her classes went by in a breeze. The lectures were more interesting and refreshing, as if spoken in enchanting dulcet tones than the customary monotone sound, and the ticks of the clock chased faster after its seconds than its usual pace.

But as she walked in each of her class, she always noticed that the table that held her, Harry, and Ron's seats were empty, and she looked towards the back and saw the pair of them sitting with Dean. She merely frowned, feeling a knot of annoyance and bitterness swelling inside her, before sitting down in her regular spot. She felt her displeasure for Ron grow even larger and nastier as she glared down at her book before her, trying to act nonchalant but rapidly flipping to the assigned page.

'_Merlin, I don't even know why – I can't possibly _miss_ him, can I? I mean... all he does is fall asleep and doodle silly and poorly drawn pictures on his parchments instead of taking blasted notes, and copy his assignments from me. Don't tell me that I actually miss that lazy, good-for-nothing halfwit!' _Hermione mentally yelled in frustration inside the confines of her head, drowning out the class's tittering as their professor had brought to attention another of Neville's clumsy mistakes.

She was actually glad when her classes had finally ended that day, for that meant not having to see Ron's sickening face until tomorrow, and she thought that she could certainly live with that for the time being.

Hermione walked down the empty corridors after her trip to the library, thinking to herself. She had spent a blissful and calming hour and a half amongst the silent stacks and shelves of books, and she felt happy. Content. She had finished both of her assignments that had been assigned to them today, and she was utterly satisfied with herself.

She walked down the halls in a peaceful state of mind, hearing her blunt heels on the shiny and smooth floors of Hogwarts. The flames inside the torches wavered and danced, sending shadows to quickly dash and scurry across the dim walls.

When she got to her room, Hermione knew that a nice and soothing bath would help her for the rest of the night, so she blissfully smiled to herself and undressed, slipping into her pajamas. She grabbed her towel, toothbrush, and a clean pair of undergarments before she headed out of her room.

But as she crossed the common room to get to the loo, she noticed Draco lying on the couch, a book in his hands.

Probably had porn in there.

She didn't bother to utter a word to him, although a quip about ferrets had been simmering right on her tongue. Talking to him would only degrade her heavenly bath experience. However, she didn't feel the sudden focus of silver eyes on her walking form as she reached the bathroom door and stepped inside. She let out a heavy sigh as she closed and locked the door promptly behind her.

Draco Malfoy stared at the door with a disturbed look on his face, wondering where that had suddenly come from.

Hermione hummed to herself as she slipped off her pajamas after choosing her choice of bubbles and fragrance for today. She sighed languidly as she closed her eyes, leaning back and shifting her legs as the scent of fragrant flowers and fresh rain filled her senses. She felt her mind slowly tune out, grateful for the calm after another tiring day of classes and studying. But as she opened her eyes, she reached for her washcloth and scrubbed herself, knowing that just lying in a bath full of pleasant and heavenly smelling bubbles wouldn't necessarily make her clean.

After draining the water and leftover bubbles, she toweled herself dry, shaking out her sodden hair. She dressed back into her nightclothes, reaching into a small cabinet on the sidewall and taking out her brush. She looked at her reflection that stared back at her as she combed her wet hair. She combed out her tangles and picked off the strands that had fallen out before returning it to the cabinet.

She walked out, still humming to herself cheerfully, but silencing herself as she noticed that Draco was still lying on the couch. He looked up from his book to catch her scowling at him.

"Oh, yes, I know, Granger – baths seldom help extreme cases of filth like you. But don't look so disappointed. I'm sure if they dipped you in acid it can do _something_. Not much, of course. But something."

But where was that _smell_ coming from?

He discretely sniffed himself, but it certainly wasn't him. He smelled fabulous, of course, but it was a different sort of smell… feminine. He then looked at her with an odd expression on his face. "Good Lord, did you put some perfume on or something? It _reeks_."

"Must be you, Malfoy," she snapped.

He snorted. "Didn't know Muggles were such liars."

She shook her head, scoffing in disbelief. "I know you get a kick out of pestering people with your constant nastiness, Malfoy, but have you ever considered gathering that enormous energy and herding it towards something else? Like, perhaps, gardening? That being, of course, that plants wouldn't immediately die the moment you touched them, but you could get some plastic ones that _wouldn't_ die. Just stick them in the ground, like a happy gardener."

Ah, another one of these, her infamous Immensely Boring Lectures. However, during her muffled yammering – Draco had a skill of tuning annoying people out – Draco's eyes had somehow lowered as he had been watching her, and, his scruples aside, suddenly became entranced at the strange spectacle _positioned_ right in front of him – long and slender legs that he was sure – _sure_ – weren't Granger's. He stared at it in intrigue and wonder. Did she get some sort of lower body transplant? A spell, perhaps? Because this sudden discovery launched him into a jungle of confusion. What was _Granger_ doing with a pair of _these_? A damned _righteous_ pair, at that?

"Are you kidding? Gardening is for spinsters. I bet you have a patch of lawn reserved just for you when you grow up, don't you?"

Still, though. Those legs.

And as Hermione entered her room after calling him one rather familiar word and neatly shut the door, Draco was left with no obvious comprehendible insults or disgust-filled remarks to easily steady himself.

"What the _hell_?"

A question that seemed to fit the situation quite well.

But after recovering from his momentary shock, he managed to sit up and stared with a furrowed brow at her door, wondering how he hadn't seen or noticed that before. He'd always thought he'd had a keen sense of seeking out the desirable female attributes from the not-so-desirable females, but that was when he caught himself. He'd never considered Granger a female. At least, not before. And, Good Merlin, the last thing he wanted was to start now.

Hermione was still humming herself a happy tune as she closed the door behind her, heading to her closet to put her things away. But as she walked to her desk to straighten out all of her parchments and quills, her brown eyes widened as she saw her notes for Dumbledore's plans. Her eyes darted to the door, flashes of Draco Malfoy in the common room scurrying in her mind, before she bolted out of her room as quickly as she could.

She halted right in front of his couch, her heart racing.

"Malfoy!" she exclaimed, and Draco slowly put his book down, looking at her with a tired expression on his face.

"What do you want?" he snapped. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid any spells for your appearance are only temporary. You'll have to wait until you're of age until you can get anything permanently fixed," he sneered.

Hermione gaped at him, before closing her mouth and crossly folding her arms across her chest. "Malfoy, I've got no time for your insults," she huffed. Draco watched her as she walked towards him and snatched his book away from his hands. "And guess what? Neither do you."

Draco glared at her, yet he couldn't help but felt his head dizzyingly swim in the languorous pull of her scent. What did she smell like, exactly? Oh yes, he remembered, like lavender and warm vanilla. Or, like sewer. Wait – _what_?

"Just what do you think you're doing?" he snapped at her, shaking away her stupid perfume's affect on him. When had Granger ever smelt like anything other than rotting carcasses and dragon waste? "And just who on earth do you think you are, just snatching books away from people? Give me back my book, you lowly thief!"

"No!" she said to him, clutching the book tightly behind her as he impulsively sat up to face her, his angrily creased expression staring into her own.

"And why the bloody not?" he asked irritably.

"Because, Malfoy, we've got some planning to do and I stayed up all night yesterday evening to set everything up. All I need to do is discuss it with the Head Boy and the prefects to get everything really started, and since _you're_ the Head Boy, unfortunately, I've got to discuss it with _you_. So can we just agree on something to make this faster and easier so we can each get to bed at a reasonable hour?"

Draco was staring up at Hermione, who now had her hands on her hips, with a bothered look on his face. But as she was standing right in front of him, his gaze unconsciously traveled down and suddenly he was observing her body, her small tank and tiny shorts leaving very little for him to imagine. Ignoring the way his mouth slightly dried out at the sight, he cocked his head to the side, trying to decide on the verdict.

Critic that he was, he fancied the thought of him having high standards and entertained himself by thinking that a dirty-blood with the likes of her could never even make it one-thirds there. But he had never really fulfilled it. Did she have a body of a goddess to somehow maybe outshine her annoying habits of answering questions with no regard for anyone else, or even her filthy blood? Now was the time to find out.

Draco rather liked what was standing before him. She had soft creamy skin, and he was surprised to see that she had curves that he never imagined she could ever have, what with that dreadful robe she always hid behind. She had reasonably sized breasts. But what he liked most about her, what he was in awe of that he had never seen other girls have it as good as she did: was her legs. She had long, slender and smooth legs, and Draco knew that all his years here, he had never seen any like hers before. They were perfect. In fact, it was _disturbing_.

"You know, Granger, rise that skirt a few inches, shorten those knee-highs and dart out those legs every now and then, the whole male population here at Hogwarts would be trailing after you like a flock of sheep," he said before he could think twice about his comment – or rather, compliment, – an eyebrow raised, still looking at her legs. Then he sort of slapped himself, mentally. "That is," he said, scowling up at her, trying to recover, "if you weren't – well, _you_."

Seriously, what the hell?

Hermione felt blood rush to her face, suddenly feeling as if she was on fire. But, nevertheless, she managed to narrow her eyes at him, trying to resist the very strong urge to hit him with his book but was currently not doing so well. She felt her grip tighten as she clenched her fists, her anger and impatience colliding into a fairly lethal mix inside of her. Her emotional collisions were indeed something to be very, very afraid of.

"Malfoy," she said through gritted teeth, "I have no time for this – your degrading comments, your ugly pinched ferret face, or your perpetual ego. _You're_ Head Boy and _I'm_ Head Girl, and we must get this done, understand? Though you are a cocky, rude, disgusting and vicious little snake, I am willing to _cooperate_ if you are."

Draco's expression was impassive, clearly still unaffected by her words, his eyes still glued to her legs in a slightly bemused manner. Her words remained feckless to him. Thus, Hermione, very irritated and fed up, resorted to a very un-Hermione-like, aggressive action. She smacked him across the face with his book. Hard.

Draco shouted in a surprise and protest that soon turned into a barricade of infuriation that rivaled hers. He glared up at her underneath his blond hair, his dim overcast eyes glimmering.

"Bloody hell, Granger!" he shouted at her, still swearing under his breath. "_That_ is my bloody property, and you can't just go around hitting _me_ with it just because I can't stand to listen to another one of your dull lectures! Give me my damn book! Give it to me!" Draco's hand darted out as he tried to grab it back, but Hermione quickly held it behind her back.

"Malfoy, can't you just act civil for one blasted night so we can get this done?" she snapped.

"And civil is hitting me with my book? You'd better check that dictionary of yours," he snarled. "Now give me my damn book!"

"No!" she said, frustrated. "I won't give it back until you agree to cooperate with me! And that means _no_ derogatory or offensive remarks."

Draco reached for his book, almost lunging right at her, but she suddenly stepped back. "Granger," he growled threateningly.

"Malfoy, we _have_ to get this done tonight," she said, almost pleadingly. "Dumbledore's expecting it to be up and running soon. . . . We can't risk looking like complete, lazy idiots when he asks about it!" Draco sighed sharply, his eyes burning through her like white-hot acid. Hermione tried to put a compromising look on her face. "Malfoy, we're Heads," she said quietly. "It's a privilege, remember?"

Draco glowered at her, his eyes narrowing into icy slits. "Fine. I'll keep my Mudblood jokes to a minimum and you keep your boring, ridiculous morals and lectures to yourself. And no talking about Weasel or Potter. If you do so," Draco folded his arms and leaned back, looking up at her seriously with a hint of supercilious distaste. "Agreement is broken and all your pitiful hard work is ruined."

Hermione winced as she heard his words echo in her mind. Hermione nodded, relieved that he had agreed to cooperate — or at least act bearable.

"Fine," she said stiffly. "Deal."

But they didn't shake on it, because Hermione was afraid to get his germs, and, well, vice versa.

Draco sneered at her, an annoyed and hateful look on his pale face. "Well? Are we going to get this done tonight or what?"

Hermione glared at him before turning to leave.

"Wait! Just where the hell do you think you're going?" he barked at her.

Hermione halted, her temper fraying. She turned around, facing him with a deep scowl. He was looking at her expectedly – the Malfoy way, with impatience evident and his displeasure etched across his face – as he held out his hand. His long fingers were outlined by the orange glow of the fire.

"My book, Granger," he said sharply. "If you're going to steal, steal from Potter. He can't find any more friends, so he can't possibly risk getting angry with you and therefore driving you away. Well?"

Hermione, clenching her fists, raised his book and threw it at him, hitting him square on the shoulder, as she unremorsefully swore at herself for missing (her target was his face, as is any effective throw). She stormed back to her room to get her notes as she heard him call out to her in a scornful tone.

"You missed, Granger!"

"Yeah, well, I won't miss again!"

Damn straight, Hermione Granger. Damn straight.

oooo

Hermione came back into the common room after calming herself down for a few minutes in her room, for reason that she found that if she hadn't tried to compose herself, she would've attacked him and tried to rip out his pretty, shiny, pure-blood blond hair just to watch him scream like the little priss that he was.

She walked at her usual pace, trying to avoid looking his way, well aware of the fact that she could feel his eyes on her. She was conscious of the thumping beats in her chest, but dismissed it without another thought as she kneeled down and settled on the carpet, her back against the foot of the couch Draco was laying down on. Draco was facing her, his hands lazily folded on his stomach. To be rather honest, the thought of being alone in any room with only Draco Malfoy sent her stomach into knots. Her mind unwillingly ventured into all sorts of worst case scenarios that were to happen if either of them said any single thing wrong. That was the tricky thing between people like her and people like him (two very dissimilar parties, but not, considering their pride and vulnerabilities – their pride). She was prepared for the absolute worst, for as she sat down she could already feel an ominous cloud hovering over them.

She gripped her wand beside her, hidden by her books.

More often than not she actually wondered when that day was going to come – when she would finally lose her cool after one of his boorish, self-important remarks. Would he be shocked if she stuck her wand up his nostril and hexed him that way?

"All right, Malfoy," she said, turning to face him with a stern hint in her voice that told him that she meant business, "we had an agreement. I won't lecture you, you will not make any unrelated or unnecessary remarks about me, my family, or my blood."

Draco smirked as he caught that she had missed something. Hermione quirked one brunette brow at him, noting the look on his face and the sly glint in his gray eyes. Quickly, she caught herself as she remembered her words. "_And_ my friends," she said firmly, which instantly wiped the smirk off of his face. Hermione proudly smiled at him, turning back to her notes.

She skimmed through it, flipping through the parchments.

"Good God, Granger," Draco complained as soon as he saw the pages of notes she had written. "You didn't write a bloody tome, did you?" Dear Lord, it was _not_ in his intention to spend more than an hour with this boring prude. Like he said, he had better things to do than to hang around with the Saint Squad.

Like, _sabotage_ the Saint Squad in every possible way.

Hermione paused, glaring at him from the corner of her eye before looking back down on her work, trying to focus. "No, Malfoy, I didn't write a tome," she snapped. "Now would you shut up? I'm trying to concentrate."

"Concentrate on what? You wrote it all down, didn't you? Well then, just read it to me and get on with it!"

"Impatience and attempting to bicker with me will not get you anywhere," she said, not looking up.

Draco sighed in irritation, but he just kept silent, waiting for her.

Realizing that he had nothing to do but wait, he curiously kept his eyes on her, observing yet again. He frowned. "Granger, hurry the hell up," he sourly said to her. "I haven't got all night. Not all of us prefer to study and do God knows whatever else until the wee hours of the first light. Some of us actually like sleep, you know."

Hermione sighed exasperatedly, clenching her jaw at his impatience and bad temper. She wondered what good it would do to actually throw a punch at him right now.

"Well," she said unhurriedly, her eyes still going over her notes. She flipped back to the first page, sighing. "Dumbledore wants us to create a newspaper for Hogwarts and only for the Hogwarts community. He wants it to appeal to every year and every House, with both jocular articles and unbiased, factual articles on events going on in both Hogwarts and the outer wizarding world surrounding us."

Draco merely looked at her, his eyes dim with concentration. He began to think about the newspaper and how it would work, not to leave out if they could do such a thing. The possibilities were in fact, a good and numerous amount, but could they really pull off something as big as this?

"He left us in charge of practically everything," she continued a moment later. "The format, design, planning, choice of sections and most importantly, the staff."

Draco tensed at her words. "What do you mean 'staff'?" he asked guardedly. He'd never been one for socializing and he already hated it that he had to work with the prefects often. What did Dumbledore have in mind with this plan, anyhow? To unite the houses and persist on rubbish inter-House unity? That old man really was full with dim-witted ideas. Probably had that whole 'Hope in the Youth' sort of rubbish going on. Really, Draco thought that with age came incredible gullibility. Probably went with the fact that he was senile, too.

Hermione sighed again, and he could hear the weight in her breath. "It's going to be the most difficult part, but once we recruit them, it should go smoothly and it'll make everything easier. We need writers, columnists, and a photographer. . . . Basically, we need one writer for each section we decide to have, if not two."

"You mean we have to choose the writers and that whole lot?"

"Yes. We _are_ the Heads."

"What about the prefects? Don't tell me they're stuck with the idle jobs!"

Hermione sent him a look, not very appreciative with his whining. "Malfoy, we're going to discuss this with the prefects tomorrow, that is, if we get everything sorted out tonight. They will each have a say in the sections and writers, but it will be us who will mainly decide who will get a spot and who won't."

Draco shifted, sitting up. His gaze was intense but distracted and unfocused. "And how are we going to get the newspaper journalist candidates, exactly?" He dreaded the idea of it being some sort of social _and_ a tedious duty. He _hated_ this crap.

"Well, I thought about this," she said slowly, "and I think that we should have them send in a sample of their work first, then we choose the ones that are the best."

Hermione continued on before Draco could let out another possible objection. "I was having a bit of trouble with what years can and cannot apply," she said uncertainly as she looked over at Draco, indecisive on the year requirements. He was looking at her with his eyes dark beneath his light hair, and Hermione was struck in awe at how different he looked without that nasty smirk or scowl permanently etched on his pallid face.

Or, like, his smowl.

(The blend of both a smirk and a scowl.)

She found her thoughts slowly wandering from the important matter they were discussing… to how smooth his skin seemed, and if it was really as soft as it looked. And as her eyes were slowly trailing his rather magnificent features, she came to examine his hair – ridiculous as it was. But it was one of those details that made Malfoy himself, a part of his image, like Harry's scar was to his identity. She had never taken to observing his hair color, for to her it had always been the same silvery-blond, the sort that the Veela kind always sported, but she came to think that she had never seen anyone else with a hair shade like his.

It was weird.

And really disgusting.

Hermione cleared her throat, looking away, scratching her ear.

"I say fifth years and up should be simple and fair enough," he said hesitantly. He was anxious on determining the newspaper decisions and trying to land on the right choice. The newspaper would be a series of complete blunders – therefore classifying it as one major and vast blunder – if even one small thing was overseen. And if Draco were to be involved in a public catastrophe, it would certainly do no good to his reputation. And, really? His reputation was all he had. That was his, anyway, and even then it wasn't _truly_ his. His father, just like everything else, had influenced that portion of his life, too.

"It will have to do," she said, getting back on her original train of thought of the newspaper, although she was still disturbed and embarrassed over her very recent thoughts of her adversary. When had she started to think about his _hair_? Hair-hair was just _bacteria_ sprouting from the scalp! And that was what Draco Malfoy was. One walking, smirking, talking _blob_ of bacteria.

"If we raise it up to the sixth years, it will completely narrow out our choices, and I'm afraid that that will give us even more difficulty in recruiting staff, for not many sixth and seventh years might be interested in working for the newspaper and actually have the talent or skill. Fourth years, I'm afraid, they might be quite a bit…"

"Green and inexperienced," Draco nodded, obviously thinking the exact same thing.

"Right," Hermione sighed. "We need a staff who knows their way around here and knows the professors very well, not to mention the knowledge and familiarity. Although I'm sure the fourth years are good and hard working students, I'm afraid they might get a bit intimidated when it comes to interviewing the professors or perhaps a visitor, even a student in their grade or above. Our staff needs a sense of steadfastness of their stand, and the awareness that comes along with being here a number of years."

Draco nodded again, agreeing with her on her commentary, but stayed silent.

"I was thinking of the title of the newspaper, and I knew it had to be catchy, somehow," she said tentatively. "I thought of the 'Hogwarts Harmonium.'"

"I think that might as well be our title," he drawled, but Hermione could hear from his voice that he was a bit cynical over her choice.

"I didn't ask for your opinion," she muttered.

"I'm only worried for the illiterate ones. Like, perhaps, your hothead Weasley?"

"_Worried_? Really?" She made a face. "Are you sure?" she scrutinized. "You mustn't be feeling well, then, seeing as how evil bastards only worry about themselves and no one else."

"Granger, I'm only voicing out a point," he said to her, ignoring her little quip. "Think about it. You know that there are some brain-dead disappointments wandering about in this school. They might be intimidated by such a big word. And by brain-dead disappointments I mean Hufflepuffs. And some Gryffindors."

This wasn't a relevant remark to her at all. She looked up at him with a twitching brow, irked for what he was insinuating. Didn't he get _tired_ of _judging_ everybody every _single_ bloody _day_? What _was_ it to him? Didn't he have a single drip of compassion or even self-respect to just stop himself before he said things like that?

"Would you stop being so stuck-up?" she fired. "And, not to mention, you're forgetting Crabbe and Goyle, and they're in Slytherin."

"No," he scoffed. "I don't even have a clue as to why they were sorted into Slytherin. They belong in Hufflepuff. With stomachs as big and bottomless as theirs, the name suits them, don't you think?"

Of course, Hermione knew that this was a rhetorical question for Draco Malfoy would never ask for anyone else's opinion, let alone hers. But she had to bite back the fact that she had always wondered about their eating capacity and hearing someone so different from her verbally announce the mutuality of the idea amused her. Not only was Draco Malfoy a whip-tongued snake, he was a whip-tongued snake who hissed insults about his own friends. There was no respect in that, even if his friends were Crabbe and Goyle.

How depressing his life was.

Hermione sighed tensely, pressing her lips together.

"I thought you knew, Malfoy. There's no denial in their Slytherin traits. After all, they are blubbering bullies who use their horrendous weight to their advantages," she said honestly and in a matter-of-factly tone, a swell of confidence smoothing her words like velvet to her ears. "They could never be in Hufflepuff, with the way they act. They bully and steal textbooks from first years, steal from the kitchens —" Draco snorted at this, interrupting her.

Hermione continued on. "Point is, they're in Slytherin because that's where they belong," she said, her words vindictive. She felt this was her long-awaited retribution to those two obstructive blobs of human mass. "Sure, they don't even have a speck of brains, but they're smart enough to know that they can frighten people who aren't as bulky or perhaps years below them. And only Slytherins do so. They use their advantages for their own motives, mostly so that they can only gain."

Draco was silent now, just looking at her, bothered at her negative attitudes towards his house (it was no surprise). This was the first time he had only noticed how clipped her words sounded, like spooling vengeance, or the way she stared so firmly into his eyes with such defiance, daring him to correct her.

But there was a sort of stern honesty in her words, though mildly nasty sounding. It was undeniable it was a straightforward honesty that at times he sometimes wished for someone to speak with when discussing about certain matters with him. It was a sharp or brutal sort of honesty, yet simple and truthful and not so much meant to harm more than to challenge, and Draco couldn't help but be confused about what to think about that.

And, well, she was still a Mudblood, there was that.

"Well, Granger," he drawled, forcefully feeling a protectiveness and defensive nature regarding his house. He was still a Slytherin, after all. That mere but significant fact would never change. And who was she to start running her mouth about things she knew nothing about, anyway? She wasn't a Slytherin. Hadn't ever talked to one. So he also wanted to hiss at her to _shut up_, because her snobbery about knowing everything was just getting too old. If there was anything Draco hated more than fakes, it was fakes who went around gabbing about things they didn't know _anything_ about. And Granger just about fell into that category like a paperclip to a magnet.

"I bet a majority of your little Gryffindor friends and even all the other houses feel the same, but that doesn't mean it's true." Draco sneered he noticed her body stiffen. "I mean, really, Granger, have you ever given a Slytherin a chance? A chance to prove you wrong? You're so set that _we're_ the evil ones that you can't even face the fact of a possibility that you might be proved wrong by giving any of my housemates a chance.

"You're afraid. You, your little Gryffindor friends, and this whole damn school _need_ someone to be the villain, someone to be the evil and devious ones. You see us how you want to see us," he said, taking pleasure in seeing the way her eyes dimmed in guilt and realization. "Think about it. What if all the Slytherins were like you bloody Gryffindors, heroic and irritating and so damn righteous?"

Hermione listened to him, his voice and words unfathomably double-edged, disconcerting her stubbornness and beliefs. She bit her lip, her heart heavy with an eclipsing shadow filled with doubt and qualm. She would never admit it, but his little speech had struck a nerve. But as she sighed inwardly, keeping her eyes on him, she didn't dare back down. Because he _couldn't_ be right. He _couldn't be_. What would _he_ know about this stuff? He didn't _care_, remember? He spent his days terrorizing innocent people, calling them names that scarred even the most steel-crated ribs. And she just wasn't _ready_ for this. He wasn't going to get her with this, pretending to be so passionate about something so oxymoronic to how he'd acted towards them the past six years.

And what _was_ this? Flinging all of this _deep_ stuff in her face? Was it another way of mortifying her, just like that day in the infirmary?

"Malfoy," she said, finally looking up at him with that defiant glimmer in her brown orbs. "Thanks for the monologue, but don't you think you're being a hypocrite? Here you are, speaking to me about the obvious discrimination of and between the houses, yet… you're just like me," she scoffed knowingly. "You're just like all of us. You've never given any of us a chance, either," she said angrily. "You're always putting us down, us _little_ Gryffindors. Not to mention the Hufflepuffs. Don't you see that we only see you that way because you choose to act it? We believe in what we see, not just what we want to see. I mean, I see you, and…"

"And what, Granger?" Draco suddenly asked her, firmly and fiery, his temper flaring. "You see me torturing an innocent soul? Killing off all the Mudbloods and Muggles one by one? Planning and scheming to be the next Dark Lord? Or what about your precious Potter? Do you see me making plans to slaughter him, cut up his body, send off his body parts to Wizarding Black Markets and finally rid him off the face of this earth?"

Hermione noticeably stiffened, and he saw that same fire inside her eyes, except now it glittered with a darker edge unlike anything before when she would look up at him so boldly. "Are you?" she asked him, her anger escalating in her voice.

Draco felt antagonism rising in him. "What do you think, Granger?" he snapped. "My father was a Death Eater, and so I just _have_ to be one as well!" he said, in a raised voice that surprised her. "Isn't that what people say? 'Oh look, there's Draco Malfoy, the Death Eater?' " He was looking at her fiercely, his eyes gleaming darkly. She wanted to lie to him, just to prove him wrong and spite him, but he ranted on.

"And what about you? Don't you think that some of the Hufflepuffs, or Ravenclaws or even some of your fellow Gryffindors are Death Eaters?" he spat, obviously infuriated at the subject. "Or are all the Slytherins just the ones with the clearly seen evil and dark future? Tell me, Granger, because I sure as hell would like to know!"

Hermione felt a knot in her throat as she swallowed hard.

"No!" she suddenly said. "No, I don't!"

Just then, Draco stood up and got off the couch and stormed towards her, grabbing her arm and forcing her to her feet. She felt an infectious blaze inside her as she stared up at him, his grip on her arm so tight that she could feel the pain shooting up from his fingers digging into her flesh. They were standing so close, her heart racing at the wild look in his eyes. She didn't know what to do. She wanted to _hit_ him for suddenly barraging all of this stuff to her with no warning, but she couldn't. She could feel his firm grasp on her and she just _couldn't_.

"And _why_ not?" he asked her lowly. His eyes were shadowed so dangerously, and though she would never want to show it, she was a tad bit afraid of him now. She had never seen him this way before. She didn't pull away from him, but she suddenly noticed his eyes flickering, realizing that he was searching her own. She could feel her pulse hammering inside her veins, her breaths ragged and cut.

"Because," she fiercely whispered to him, her voice shaky, wanting to seem brave and unyielding. "They would never be on the same side as the Dark Lord. It's a well known fact that Slytherins are easily swayed to working for someone, even if it is to kneel at their feet, for promised power, wealth, and glory."

"How do you know," he said darkly, "that your Gryffindors don't drool at the chance to gain power, wealth, and glory? Huh, Granger? How the hell would you know? How would you even know if they'd considered the opportunity? Can you read their minds, Granger?" he seethed.

Hermione said nothing as she just stared into his icy eyes, colored so similarly to the gathering storm clouds before a rainstorm that it shook her down to the marrow within her bones. For once, she didn't know what to say. What _could_ she say that would strike him in that sore spot just as he had done her? She wanted to tell him to get away from her, yet at the same time ask when he had gotten such _depth_. For Draco Malfoy was an entirely shallow being that care naught for things like houses, or discrimination – because he was _part_ of that. Couldn't he understand that? That he was _a part_ of it all? Or did he just not know?

So it was shocking. It overwhelmed her. This-this, whatever this was. She found herself sucking in a shuddering breath at the look in his eyes, wondering what had happened to suddenly get them into this position. Her mind was reeling from what he had said.

And as if Draco read her mind, he let go of her arm. His eyes weren't full of hatred, or even annoyance… just anger. Pure, unfiltered anger. But it was a darker anger that she had never seen him express. As if it was the sort of anger that had been bottled up inside for a long time. But Hermione didn't want to believe it. She didn't.

"You think you're so smart and clever," he hissed at her, and she faintly cringed from his frosty tone. "You and your Gryffindors think you're so high and mighty and bloody righteous that it makes me sick. You're not any different than any of us. You're just as evil, just as capable of destruction and choosing the Dark side instead of the right for your own selfish damn reasons. It makes me bloody sick the way you look at my House and I, like we're filthy and unworthy, like scum, when you're just the same. You blind yourself with glory and hide behind your precious Harry Potter, and you think that makes you special. News flash, Granger: you're not. You're _not_. You treat us with just as much hate and revulsion as we treat you, but you think you're not accountable for it. You blame it on _us_. You can't handle thinking that it's just as much your fault as it is ours. Get off your thrown, Granger," he said to her, his mercury-colored eyes flickering dimly.

"Grab an armor and I suggest you get ready, because once we're out of this sodding school, no one's going to give a damn if you were a Gryffindor or a Slytherin. You're going to be treated like dirt, and you're going to fail if you think that it's going to be just the same out there than it is here. Glory and fame in these imprisonment castle walls mean _nothing_. I strictly advise you and your morons to get back to reality before you crash into it a bit too late."

And before Hermione could open her mouth in retaliation, he had already given her one last icy scowl and stormed past her, leaving her to wince as she heard the frame-shattering slam of his door.

She was left with his biting words still clawing at her conscience and his furious gray eyes hauntingly imprinted in her mind. She stared at where he had just stood, not blinking, merely breathing tightly with teeth forcefully clenched. His words had stung her more than she would ever care to admit, because she saw it now. She knew it. It was true. His words had hurt her more than anything else and left a stinging scar, because it was the truth. And she _hated_ it. Because it was _Draco Malfoy_. Draco Malfoy had been the one who had uncovered this to her. _Draco Malfoy_.

Suddenly, she angrily whirled around, facing his door. "Yeah, well, I _hate_ gardening!" she found herself yelling in his room's direction, before stomping back into her own room.

Hermione sighed as she leaned against the wood, raising her hands to her face.

She just couldn't believe the irony of her life.

Then she remembered that she'd left her wand inside the common room, and so, with slightly wobbly knees, she went back and retrieved it before heading back to her room again.


	7. Lunacy and Letters

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter… well. I don't. It's a sad fact that that will probably never change.

**Lunacy and Letters**

The next day, Hermione woke up feeling a little sick.

"I had to talk to Malfoy last night," she hoarsely told Ginny, whose ginger brows rose up at the sudden mention of the Slytherin. Hermione just felt as if she had to talk about it; there was a crowding around her lungs that she didn't like. She even almost felt nauseous, and she knew that she should be angry with him, very angry, because he had shouted at her and accosted her so violently. And maybe she was, but she just couldn't tell with the turbulent amalgam of emotions stirring up inside of her. It made her feel so disoriented. "About Dumbledore's plans and how we would go about trying to make it work."

Ginny bit into her muffin, a thoughtful look on her fair face. "I take it that it didn't go so smoothly?" she said, after she swallowed.

"No," Hermione said up at Ginny, tossing another orange peel on her plate, "not even a little bit."

"You didn't hex him, did you?"

"No." Hermione silently sighed, feeling a twinge of weakness and helplessness that she didn't favor at all. She stared at the peeled orange sitting at the palm of her hand. Her thoughts were restless now, swimming and busying the mechanics and works of her mind. She could almost see them, invisible wisps of brainpower or magical vapors, loosely winding around the naked orange, vulnerable and innocent and plump. Then squeezing it tight like a boa constrictor, tight and tighter until the area around the bind was threatening to burst with citrus juice…

… and then it would explode.

Bet Ron would've liked that.

She didn't know why, but she felt awful about it. Not on the moral platform part, which goes without saying, but because she was actually thinking about apologizing to _Malfoy_, evil prick of the universe. Were it to be to any other person, she would gladly go about it without such a sick feeling in her stomach. But apologizing to _Malfoy_? The idea had an indigestible depravity to it. Why was _she_ going to go and apologize to _him_ for, anyhow? Nobody had been in the wrong for having different opinions. Not even her. But Hermione found herself frowning at that thought.

Ginny looked at her. Hermione broke off a slice, placed it in her mouth, and chewed slowly. She was distractedly looking elsewhere, as if she was peering into an imaginary world only she could see. But that didn't surprise Ginny. Sometimes that's what she thought, that Hermione did have some imaginary world where libraries covered every inch of the ground and free elves were frolicking about the happy shelves, free from unpaid labor.

"I went to the Owlery before I came here," Hermione suddenly said. "I expect you'll get your owls in a few minutes."

Just then, as she continued to eat her orange, she remembered. She dug her hand into the pocket of her robe and took out the note, thinking to herself about her message to him. She looked around and found that Ginny had given up on her and was talking to Seamus across the table and a couple of seats from them, deciding to herself that Ginny would be distracted enough for a fair amount of time for her to write her note. But just as she was digging into her book bag for her quill, she heard the cacophony rise in volume and she looked up to see a flurry of owls swooping into the room. She halted her search and held out her hands.

She spotted her own owl and her only mail dropped into her hands: her weekly issue of the Daily Prophet. She took the paper in her hand, hearing the familiar hoot of her owl as it landed beside her plate. Hermione smiled at her owl as she heard Ginny talk excitedly to Seamus about one of her packages, an animated gleam in her eye that Hermione slightly envied.

She greeted Guinevere, her owl, softly, petting her. "How have you been?" The owl playfully nipped at her fingers, and she smiled faintly as she reached for a small biscuit. She broke it into small pieces and offered one to the flint-feathered owl, who took it happily. And as Hermione watched as it contentedly gobbled down its little snack, she couldn't help but wonder why she couldn't be that way. Easy to please. Because maybe, just maybe, she thought, her life would be much better that way and she wouldn't be sitting in the middle of two sullen-faced and depressed fourth years named Glenda and Shirly and hearing the roar of her stomach but knowing that she didn't even have the heart to eat a real breakfast anymore.

oooo

Hermione was in Transfiguration when she took the note out again. It had taken some thoughtful (and rather, aggressive) contemplation to get herself to finally go about it. She was alone today, sitting in front of the class, but she didn't mind. She had wanted to be alone for she had known that she still had to write her message for him and she didn't want anybody snooping around in her business and starting a new horrible rumor. She hated herself for doing it, too – it was so humiliating. And she didn't want anyone else witnessing the terribleness of it. In fact, she was so close to just ripping up the parchment and yelling out loud, "I'm _not_ apologizing to you, you damn _fake_!" Because she just couldn't believe he'd said those things to her. That couldn't have been Draco Malfoy. No bloody way.

Draco Malfoy was pretentious and shallow and disgusting. He was rich, spoiled, and bigheaded. He called her a Mudblood. He liked to see her hurt. He made fun of Harry's dead parents. He wouldn't care about discrimination.

But, damn, then what _was_ that?

She looked around the room and her eyes unconsciously landed on him, his bright hair making him easily spot out from the rest of the class. He was looking towards the front of the room where McGonagall stood, explaining and lecturing. She noticed how his Slytherin class ring winked at her, flashing from the stray light, and she turned away, taking a deep breath and stifling all of her bubbling annoyance and disconcertment. Just the sight of him made her boil – but not exactly with only anger, more like a surf of every emotion she could possibly have wired in her brain. She dipped her quill in her inkbottle, but hesitated and instead grabbed another piece of parchment. She quietly tore it in half before she started to write.

_'Malfoy,_

_I've notified the prefects that there's to be a meeting this evening at exactly nine o'clock in the Meeting Room.'_

Hermione faltered again, sighing silently, trying to come to a decision on what to say and how to say it. She even began to scold herself, for what did it matter how she said it? He was Draco Malfoy – any apology should be good enough, even if she had some of Guinevere's droppings on the page (which she thought he definitely deserved and would be rather genius). Finally, she put the tip of the quill to the surface of the parchment and began to write, ever so slowly.

_'Considering the events of the previous night, I realize that I'm the one with the due apology. So just accept it, you bigoted arsehole._

_From,_

_Hermione Granger_

_Head Girl._

_Ps. You're right. I think it is only proper that I tell you so.'_

Classy.

Hermione reread her letter, and then sighed. She tried to calm the looming feeling that she was going to regret this. She certainly did not fancy the thought of writing an apology note to one of her loathed adversaries. What was he to do with it? Go out into the halls and read aloud her pathetic attempt of smoothing things out between them? Perhaps make copies of it and pass it out to every single student in the castle? She shuddered to think of the other equally Slytherin possibilities.

"I hate this," she whispered to herself. Though she now had second thoughts to this whole ordeal, she quickly folded the parchment and placed it in her pocket before turning her attention back to the professor, trying not to think of how it would sound for him to laugh at her for being such an idiotic bint who went around writing apologies and sending them off to people like Draco Malfoy.

oooo

Draco entered his room, closing the door behind him. It was dark, but he didn't bother to voice out the spell for the enchanted lights. He had decided that he rather liked darkness at a young age, and it had been so for as long as he could remember. Maybe because light wasn't particularly fond of the manor, for it had always been quite chilly and murky down by where he regally lived. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dimness and his skin had grown an immunity to withstand low temperatures. But he recalled that one day, at the age of thirteen, when he had to go visit a house in Herefordshire with his father on some business. God, it had been bright out there. He'd gone through the whole day squinting his eyes shut for they were watery and painful. The sun burned his skin and he'd turned red all over – even his mother had thrown a fit when she'd seen him, making sure to rub extra hard when spreading ointment all over his face as a sort of punishment, scolding him about how he'd always known his skin was sensitive to sun and how his father was such a stupid man sometimes (boy, how he'd known that!). He'd never been particularly fond of sun since.

He dropped his book bag on his bed as he strode towards his window. He drew back the curtain and the milky moonlight spilled from his windowpane, feeling a poignant ping of admiration for the hours of darkness. He looked out into the night and he reached for the lock on the windows and turned it, hearing the soft click as it unlocked. He gently pushed it open as one half of the window was released and moved forward until he could feel a new chill enter his room, embracing him as he felt stings of pleasure stab into his skin.

Draco sighed with contentment as he felt the bitter, fresh night air swoop in, inhaling as much as he could. He looked out and found himself facing a full moon. The moon was whole and bright, and what fascinated him more than anything was the fact that it was surrounded with so much darkness, yet it dominated and shone so godly. It used the darkness to make itself glow brighter, and he found that natural fact strangely brilliant.

Last night had been an awful shock to him. A strange occurrence, a peculiar and unexpected event. He hadn't expect to go off on her like he did, but the only reason he could come up for his sudden temper flare-up was that he knew that he had been the only one to really notice the House hypocrisy since fifth year. He hadn't spoken about it, but he remembered that he was quite bitter when he had realized, despite his emotional stoicism, and it continued to grow against his wishes, little by little, as the years progressed. But he hadn't known he would suddenly go off shouting about it. That was certainly not the Malfoy way. Because if he just went shouting off about stupid things like that, then he would surely be just as loony as Granger – and he was most definitely _not_.

But, see, the odd thing was, he really didn't know if she was the same Granger he knew before. Sure, she was still frustrating, a Muggle-born, a Know-it-all and bloody annoying, but something about her had changed. He just couldn't place a finger on exactly what. She was snarky as hell. There was that.

The frightening part was that in very, very _rare_ instances, in a crowded room, he almost found himself searching for a head of thick russet curls one time or another, and it disturbed him far too greatly that it very nearly made him queasy in the stomach. He couldn't have himself growing fond of her, even though at times he just wanted a good row and wanted nothing but to pick it on her. Sometimes, when he was angry at his circumstances, she was just there, and… well, the rest was history. He just liked to hurt her sometimes, really _bad_ at times, which made him feel a little ashamed. It was a mechanism, if you will. If life was kicking him around, he kicked her around.

And, well, fair was fair. She'd kicked him around a fair amount of times as well. Actually, slapped was a better word.

Draco looked up when he heard a distinct sound of flapping wings. He looked over to his owl's cage and saw his owl there, sleeping. He looked suspiciously out towards the window, hearing the fluttering get louder as it came nearer.

Just as Draco expected, an owl flew in, one with bright yellow eyes that softly glowed in the darkness. It landed on his desk, and Draco watched the owl closely. The owl hooted as Draco stroked it gently and noticed that it had a letter attached to its leg. He untied the letter, curious, and heard as the owl flew back into the night, obviously instructed not to wait for a reply.

Draco looked at the folded parchment, aware of the fact that it had his name written across the front. He recognized the writing, but didn't let his mind dwell on it too long as he unfolded the parchment without haste. He read it quickly.

Afterwards, Draco held the letter in his hand, staring out of his open window. There was a bitter breeze that swept in and entangled itself around him before it disappeared, leaving him alone in the darkness and moonlight, with just his churning thoughts and the letter, flapping flimsily in the wind.

He scoffed down at the letter, but found himself smiling a little; just because Granger was so stupid sometimes that she was actually a little bit charming.

ooooo

Hermione watched as the owl hooted at her gratefully and she uneasily grinned at the simplicity of its happiness, watching it stretch its wings, ready for flight. It headed out into the inky night sky. Her eyes trailed after it as she could hear its flapping wings, and soon it was gone. She had specifically told the owl to leave right away for reason that she wasn't anticipating a response – she feared what response he would possibly send back to her. Maybe a hexed letter or something evil he could just as easily produce.

But she decided to wait just in case, to make sure that the owl followed her instructions and that he had taken the letter. Or he hadn't somehow strangled the owl or killed it in any way.

She had thought about this before, whether she should tell the owl to wait whilst he write a reply to her. But she knew Draco Malfoy very well, and though there was the familiar pinging of annoyance and some bitterness to pinch at her tender conscience when she knew that he would – most likely – just laugh at her from her letter, she still tried not to care. It was utterly predictable, anyhow. If he was going to be such a heartless bastard, then she knew that maybe nothing in the world could change him from the way he was, even castration.

Hermione looked up minutes later to the sound of fluttering wings. She smiled faintly as the same owl entered the Owlery, feeling a massive wave of relief easing her tensed muscles, landing right beside her, stretching its wings for a final time before tucking them in and stepping into its cage. Hermione reached out and stroked it gently as it hooted and affectionately nipped at her fingers.

"Thanks," she said to the owl, before she pulled back her hand slowly. "Particularly gutsy of you to fly over to that cad." The owl was certainly a lot braver than _her_, that was for sure.

She looked at her wristwatch and knew it was just ten minutes before their scheduled meeting. She knew that her room was not so far from here, so she made up her mind to go to her room and drop her book bag off before going over to the Gryffindor dormitories and fetching Ginny so they could maybe walk there together.

Hermione turned and made her way to her room, trying to hurry her pace. She reached her door and said her password before entering quickly and setting her things on her bed, hurrying out and heading over to the Gryffindor dormitories. To her surprise, Ginny was just walking out of the portrait hole with Dean right behind her when she arrived. Hermione called out to her, and as Ginny finally noticed her, she shot her one of her dazzling smiles, a familiar one that was rumored to break the hearts of boys all over the school. She watched as her friend told her fellow Gryffindor prefect, Dean, something she couldn't hear from her distance and he nodded before sending a polite greeting over to Hermione and she greeted him back.

Hermione fell instep with Ginny as they casually walked over to the Meeting Room by the Astronomy Tower. They lightly chatted until they came upon the Meeting Room. Hermione said the password and the portrait door opened, and the two girls stepped inside.

Hermione saw that almost every one of the prefects was there, talking amongst themselves at a rather lively volume. She looked to her wristwatch, seeing that it was just about two to nine. Hermione went around and took the chance to converse with her peers, although it did not exactly work the way she had planned. Apparently, quite a few of them still felt a bit iffy with her around. Like she was a professor or something equally threatening, precluding any chance of fun or humor.

At exactly nine, Hermione got up to the front where there lay a small podium, and they all quieted down, their attention directed squarely at her. Hermione smiled, grateful for their attentiveness. She felt butterflies in her stomach and scratchy, bile liquid behind her throat. She nodded to herself and licked her lips, making sure to speak in a crystal-clear, perfect voice.

"Well, I see that you're all present today, and not tardy, might I add. We have some important matters to discuss that Professor Dumbledore informed Malfoy and I about, and I think that—"

"Speaking of Malfoy," she heard Blaise Zabini suddenly say, a smug Slytherin that was almost as bad as Draco, minus the pretentious blond hair – replaced with pretentious, gooped-up dark hair. From his tone, it seemed he was obviously annoyed with his tardy. Hermione, blinking, looked over at him, watching as he sneered and sat about at his seat as if he were a gluttonous king dissatisfied by his jesters. "Where _is_ our Head Boy? I've got things to do, and he better not delay us all."

There was a stirring in the room as everyone looked around, searching for their Head Boy, not having noticed his absence and trying to see if Blaise was right. Then there were several nods of agreement amongst the prefects, and Hermione only just noticed that he, or rather, her "partner" was not here yet. She mentally cursed as she looked around, his towering head of silver hair nowhere to be found.

'_Curses_!' her mind impulsively exclaimed. '_What if he didn't get the owl_?'

Hermione began to wring her hands, panicked. '_But the owl came back; that means Malfoy had been there and had taken the letter.'_

'_What if he took it but he didn't read it?'_

'_Well, who would be dim-witted enough not to read an owl the minute it arrived?'_

She wondered how the Meeting Room suddenly spiraled out of control into a pandemonium as she helplessly looked around for a moment, feeling a secret scorn for both Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy for making things so difficult early in the meeting. Hermione called the room to order, frantically worrying in the back of her mind, as she cleared her throat.

"Malfoy and I have discussed the matters the other night," she announced firmly, yet still asking herself just where in the bloody world he was. How could he be late for a prefect meeting? He was _Head Boy_! Had he lost his marbles? "He is already aware of everything."

But… what if he had fallen down the stairs or something, had hit his head, and was currently concussed?

Hermione pressed her lips together.

Hah! Loser.

"But we're not supposed to start without our Head Boy," Blaise called out.

"Bloody _hell_, Zabini!" she heard Terry Boot, a Ravenclaw, say to him. There was an urgency radiating about the room now that mystified Hermione. "I've still got things to do! Let's start without him!" There were shouts of disagreement and agreement as everyone voiced out their opinion and Hermione looked around, nervous. Was it ridiculous to think that a riot might soon break out if she didn't do something to settle them? Why were they so riled up? Was it simply the melting of winter that caused their aggressive hyperactivity – that they had been cooped up for a seemingly long time?

Hermione swallowed. There were glaring eyes at her and she felt as if they were going to eat her alive. What was going on?

"I think that Mudblood did something to him!" Blaise shouted loudly above all the raucous. His finger was pointed right at her, and Hermione furrowed her eyebrows in anger. She opened her mouth to speak, certainly to say something to quiet his rude and uninformed assumptions, but was then unexpectedly interrupted by a familiar drawl. (Thank Merlin. Were Blaise to step another toe out of line, she would have had him fired as a prefect faster than he could say "Unfair.")

"Keep your bloody knickers on, Zabini," a crisp voice said as a tall, familiar figure with a proud stride finally entered the room. His hair gleamed in the light. Everyone quieted down as their curious eyes settled on him and Blaise's gaze spitefully narrowed at him. Draco glared at the dark-haired boy, who was scowling at him, his finger still pointed at Hermione. "I'm here."

Everyone nodded and sighed in relief as they went back to their seats.

Hermione watched Draco walk across the room and instantly grimaced at him as he nodded at her, not wanting to express any ounce of the relief she had felt jolt her heart into outer space when he had walked in. Though her heart had lightened upon seeing him enter the room and put the rude Slytherin back in his place, plus the additional odd feelings she had felt pinging around inside of her body she didn't care to account for, she frowned at his irresponsible tardiness. Had he walked in a single minute later, she would have already been mauled. Possibly.

But that was probably his intention, anyway. He was probably late on _purpose_, the prick.

She quickly glanced at him before she spoke again.

"Well, now that _everyone_ is present," she started, "we can discuss what we need to. Dumbledore called for a meeting with both Malfoy and I quite some time ago. It turns out that he has an idea of creating a Hogwarts newspaper for the school that he would like us all to try and make work."

Just as she had expected, whispers and comments erupted all around the room.

"A newspaper?" Blaise Zabini called out, yet again. His face was twisted into a sneer. "What are we going to do with a _newspaper_?"

"Make it," Draco barked at him. "So people can read it and have further knowledge of the world and school around them than their little minds usually obtain. You should try reading a newspaper once in a while, Zabini. It's factual and you can actually learn something from it. But of course, you'd have to learn how to read, first."

Hermione's eyes widened as Blaise suddenly stood, his dark eyes blazing. He pointed a finger at Draco, angrily. (He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. The finger pointing.) "Listen here, Malfoy. Just because you're Head Boy doesn't mean you're better than the rest of us."

"Oh, but haven't you heard?" Draco drawled sardonically. "I _am_."

Typical Malfoy response. Blaise walked right into that one.

"Why you little—" There were shouts across the room as he tried to make his way to the front, the crowd tensing with the radiating enmity between the two, but Dean and a twitchy-browed Ernie MacMillian shot up from their seats to hold him back. Hermione turned to Draco, whom she noticed was just smirking amusedly, enticing his housemate.

"Malfoy," she hissed. "Knock it off."

"Granger, if he's as dense to ask those ridiculous questions, I don't even know why he was appointed a prefect," he said, looking at her coolly. "He's wasting our time."

"He's a prefect because he's hardworking and he gets good scores," she said back. "And _you're_ wasting our time. First, you're late, and then you try to start something? Are you really intent on trying to ruin _all_ of us?"

"Are you blind, Granger? He's a temperamental git!"

"And _you_ shouldn't provoke him!"

Draco only shrugged before turning away, still obviously amused at the sight of the two boys trying to calm him down. Hermione glowered at him, aggravated by his troublesome kingly attitude.

"Zabini," Hermione said aloud, "calm down. Or else you will have to be excused from this meeting." Blaise glowered at Draco, and then at Hermione, until he finally jerked himself free from the two boys' grasp and took his seat, all the while still muttering under his breath. Dean and Ernie MacMillian scrambled back to their seats.

"Continuing on," she said loudly. "This newspaper will be hard work, and we will certainly have to be dedicated. We will have to pitch ideas for different sections of the newspaper, and during that, we will have to take in the skill and knowledge required for the certain writer or writers of that column or article." There were a few oohs and ahhs heard around the room, and as she looked around, she found a certain Weasley looking as if she couldn't bear to hold in anymore excitement. She could be practically glow-in-the-dark with the way she was beaming.

"We need a newspaper staff, which consists of a photographer, writers and columnists, and more importantly, an editor who is in charge of reading over the articles and correcting it, not to mention deciding if it is fit to be in the newspaper. And that is where, you, the prefects come in: the staff. We will announce that only fifth years and up can apply to work for the newspaper, and the only way they can apply is to send us a sample of their work or writing. Each of you will look through all the samples, and you will choose which one you think is best. We will notify the author of the best piece you have chosen for a meeting by owl, in which one of you and a Head – me or Malfoy — will meet and decide the verdict."

"So, how many sections do we really need?" Alexandra Blythe asked, the other Slytherin prefect.

"We're still to decide," answered Draco. "You've got to pitch some ideas for what you would like to see in the newspaper."

Hermione nodded. "Right," she said, agreeing with Draco. "Is everything clear? Do you have any questions so far?" Suddenly, the room was filled with more voices, all chattering at the same time, and Hermione had to raise her voice from the sudden volume.

"One at a time!" she called out.

The room quieted, and Dean Thomas was the one ask the first question. "So, this newspaper, what's it to be called?"

Hermione then looked at Draco. She felt a great leap in her chest that she tried her best to settle, flustered by the feeling, when his calm eyes met hers before looking away and answering for her, a subtle yet powerful hint of-of something. She didn't want to say the actual word. It was a scary word that did not pertain to Malfoy in any way.

"The Hogwarts Harmonium."

There were some nods and agreements across the room, and Hermione looked down. There was a new sensation rumbling inside her. Foreign that it was almost intimidating even to feel, but she had caught the acceptance in his voice. Though she persisted to think the affect was in every way innocuous, the fluttering she felt in her chest baffled her. Probably hiccups or something.

"And what exactly is a 'Harmonium'?" Blaise asked in a biting tone.

To which Draco responded with a very foul reply that sent the room into a raucous again.

"Malfoy!" Hermione hastily whispered to him amongst all the noise, plummeting away from her overwhelming thoughts in the nick of time. "I told you to knock it off! I don't want a body in the hospital wing by the end of this meeting!"

"And it'll be Zabini's," Draco assured her.

"No, it'll be _yours_!" she hissed, and Draco snorted at her. "Now, stop it before this becomes an animal house. I swear, Draco, if he attacks you, I will not lift a finger to stop him, understand?" And she turned away, irritated and somewhat infuriated, trying to get back to the meeting.

Draco blinked. What had she just called him? He was pretty sure she hadn't called him Malfoy, or Prick, or Superficial Bastard.

"Malfoy apologizes," said Hermione.

"I do not!" Draco objected, his surprise spooling away. "Damn it, Granger, you're lying!"

Hermione sighed exasperatedly, giving him a look, before she went ahead, ignoring Blaise's earlier question. "Any _other_ questions?"

"I have a question," Ginny said aloud, and Hermione smiled at her.

"Yes, Ginny?" she asked kindly, and Draco rolled his eyes, crossing his arms.

"I have an idea. Since only fifth years and up could only apply, what about the lower grades? I'm sure they'd like to do something, as well. I was wondering if we could have a page where the lower grades could send in poems or little articles and stories, which of course, the editor has to read and approve of, but I think the newspaper would be more appreciated if it showed that the lower years could also contribute something to it."

"That wasn't a question, Weasley," Draco snapped at her, and Hermione sent him a glare from the corner of her eye, which she knew he caught for he gave her a reciprocating look.

There were comments of approval as she turned back to Ginny, bothered by Draco's pointless interruptions yet comforted that he hadn't gone all nice and mushy on her. But even then, she almost regretted sending him that owl. He was probably laughing at her right now. Yeah, she didn't doubt it.

"That's an excellent idea, Ginny," Hermione said. "I think you're absolutely right. The newspaper would be much more appreciated if we showed that the lower years gave something. Good thinking."

Ginny beamed at her.

"So that's one section," Hermione announced. "I think we should discuss the other ideas now, as well, while we're on the subject." Then a teetering raucous began, excited voices at different tones and pitches filling the room, as they started.

"Quidditch!" Terry Boot exclaimed, and Hermione nodded, trying to prevent herself from rolling her eyes.

"Of course, Quidditch," she said, trying her best to hide the sarcasm in her voice.

"Hogwarts Main Events!" she heard Dean say. Hermione nodded, and just suddenly realized that she should be writing all this down. She looked around the desk and grabbed a quill and parchment. She uncapped the inkbottle and hastily began to write down all the ideas they were saying aloud.

And so ideas were shouted all around the room for the night, until the meeting had to be ended when Blaise noticed the time on the clock and reminded her that some of them had the nightly patrol at curfew, or, actually, that "some of us have better things to do than stay here all night" were his exact words, at which Hermione gave him a well-deserved glare for.

They all filed out of the room whilst chatting excitedly amongst themselves about the newspaper, and Hermione watched them all leave, waving her good-bye for Ginny, who was heading out with Dean back to the Gryffindor dormitories.

She sighed heavily as she looked down at her notes and found that she had only written down a few amount of ideas that had sounded good to her, just realizing that practically the whole time they had been idea pitching, people only shouted out silly ideas for a good time. Hermione was quite disappointed, but was relieved at the turnout, anyway. At least they hadn't opted burning the furniture once she had announced the idea of the newspaper.

Draco, who was still watching her from his corner, grinned with mischief once he realized that she seemed to have forgotten that he was still there.

"Death Eaters!" he suddenly shouted, and she bolted up in the air in surprise while he chuckled to himself.

Hermione turned to him, her hand clutching her chest, her heart racing from his idea of a little joke. She sent him a scowl.

"Malfoy," she snapped, trying to erase the feeling in her chest. Her heart was still trying to leap out, and she felt her pulse pounding inside her veins. "If you intend on scaring me with your little jokes, then I suggest you leave." In fact, she really wanted him to leave.

"I wasn't going to scare you on purpose," he drawled. A lie, indeed. "You just seemed to have forgotten I was here." He paused, as he feigned a look of offense and hurt. "Aw, Granger, you hurt my feelings. Am I really that invisible to you?"

"I wish you were," she mumbled to herself, turning back to her notes. It was just now that she realized that she was alone in this room... with Draco Malfoy. And that her heart was beating like a sputtering vehicle engine for another reason than the fact that he surprised her. Her hand dove into her robes, searching around for the comforting wood of her wand.

"What was that?" he asked her, not catching what she had said.

"I said, I wasn't aware that you _had_ feelings," she said, shaking her head, silently sighing as she found it. She kept her eyes down at the parchment in front of her, feeling a bit of trepidation and nervousness crawl through her skin at the idea of being in a room with Malfoy alone. Now would be a perfect time to possibly harm her or kidnap her, or do something evil. She wondered – ridiculously and nervously – if he knew that.

"Ha, ha," he said to her, no amusement in his voice at all. "You really are a funny one, Granger. You should try considering a career as a clown. You know, to entertain shallow Muggles like yourself."

Hermione didn't answer, but pressed her lips tightly together, reading her parchment over and over, trying to forget that he was there. He made her nervous; there was no doubt about that. After all, why shouldn't she be? He was practically shrouded in mystery, despite the truth about his father and all that rubbish. But she was wary, were he to try anything. Although she doubted it.

Draco sighed and pushed himself off of the wall, walking towards her. Hermione tried her best not to look up as he stood closely beside her and she could feel herself heating up from the way his side was pressed against her. She swore silently.

She tried to take deep breaths, but she found that when she did, she only inhaled in his scent, and she found herself feeling very much as if she had just experienced a euphoric head rush.

'_Merlin, he smells good,_' her mind dreamily spoke.

Hermione snapped out of her trance and gathered her wits as quickly as she could, wondering what was wrong with her. Had she just hit her head?

'_No, he does not,'_ she said back. '_He smells like any other boy. Like sweat and unwashed shirts.'_

'_No, he doesn't. Are your senses impaired? There, take a whiff, do you smell that? That, my dear, is the smell of heaven_.'

Yeah, if heaven smelt like rotting ferrets.

Hermione shook her head, trying to make her disturbing thoughts disappear as she took a step back away from him. She observed him and realized that he was reading her notes.

"Well, Granger," he said to her, not turning around to face her. She studied him with a subtle knot pulsing in her ribs. "Did your hand cramp up or something of the sort? You've written down so few, yet... hell, we spent a good half an hour listening to them pitch ideas."

"Malfoy," she sighed. "You heard them. They were all silly. They only said them aloud because they wanted a laugh."

Draco turned towards her and shrugged. "I suppose you're right, then." He then locked eyes with her in a way that made her blink with confusion, before he turned and headed back to his wall, leaning again.

In an attempt to distance herself from him, she headed over to the edge of the low stage to sit down, in hopes of dispensing her fidgeting when she could not see him watching her from the corner of her eye.

She had her hair tied at the base of her neck and now it was slightly loose. His eyes trailed her hair, following as the thick, brown waves cascaded down her slender neck. Her back was slouched from her sitting position, elbows placed on her knees, one hand on her dainty chin with the other lying across her thighs. She seemed awfully pale in the light of this room with the contrast of the dark midnight robes she wore.

But Draco found that he was even more entranced, more captivated than anything else, as his eyes lowered and saw that her robe lay limp and was not covering her bended legs at all. He even found himself praising the higher being up in the heavens for bringing upon him such a circumstance. His eyes traveled and pleasantly traced them, taking in the creamy hue of her legs and the way they seemed smooth and soft to touch. He could see that they were toned beautifully, which he found hard to believe if she had been studying and reading all summer.

Catching himself, he shuddered and tried to push his thoughts of her aside. He began to consider the thought of him going mad by her association. What else could explain this-this sudden _shift_ in… things?

Meanwhile, he loosened his tie.

Was it just him or had this room gotten a bit warmer?

But was it really his fault that she didn't have scales or hideous fur covering her skin like he had imagined? Or boils that stretched like acres across her body? It was just surprising, was all. Even a bit frightening.

Hermione looked over in his direction, silently fidgeting in the awkward silence. Her brown eyes flickered over his tall form – that is, before she caught herself and cleared her throat, looking down at her feet, her cheeks flushing a little. She scratched her ear.

"I did it because it was the right thing to do."

Draco's eyes opened, a tad bewildered. "Did what?"

"Wrote the letter," she said, but refused to look at him. She was still a bit scarred by her decision.

Draco blinked, looking at her. "Yes, because 'bigoted arsehole' always rubs off right in apology letters. I don't know how you Muggles do it, but here in the wizarding world it isn't exactly polite to include those two words in an apology, especially when they're directed to the reader."

"Look," she said, her head suddenly turning in his direction, her eyes glittering with obvious frustration. "I don't know what happened last night, but I'm having a little bit of a hard time still trying to figure it all out. _You_ – saying that stuff to me – what, were you _high_?"

He stiffened, then glared at her. "It was the truth."

"The truth?" she scoffed. "But that isn't-isn't _you_."

"Well, if you'd noticed, Granger, you don't know me," he spat. "Where do you get off telling people this anyway? That saying something _isn't_ them? You say _I'm_ stuck up – _you're_ stuck up. You're _close-minded_. If you ask me, you need some major self-evaluation classes, Granger. You think just because we've served these past few months of being Heads it means we know each other?"

"_No_," she said through clenched teeth. "I don't think that."

"Then what _do_ you think?" He seemed to be challenging her again.

"You want to know what I think?" she suddenly said, in a massive and fiery influx of her resentment, "I think that you're _mental_. Who do you think you are, saying that stuff to me, when you're a part of it yourself? Calling me a _Mudblood_? Does that give you some sort of _satisfaction_, Malfoy, to bring people down over things they can't _control_? Because I think it's sick. I think _you're_ sick. And I think it's sick that last night happened at all. I mean, what _was_ that?"

She was overwhelmed. She was letting him see that now.

Just then, Draco got off his wall and began to leave, Hermione staring after him.

"I'm not going to answer that question," he simply told her. "It's a stupid question and I'm not going to answer it."

"Well," Hermione called febrifically after him, "did you actually _mean_ it?"

He didn't answer that one, either. He just left.

And, for some reason, after a few awkward days where Hermione still fought to be so at odds with him, and what he had meant that night, they were back to square one. Over time, it was as if nothing had happened. And they were back to how they were. Strange, but it was true. Neither of them wanted to change how they were towards each other. Despite Hermione's earlier thoughts of civility (she only now realized how barmy those were), she didn't _want_ to be civil to him. On a level, he didn't deserve her civility. He deserved worse. Just because he couldn't give her that answer. It had been a unique moment for both of them, and thus, both firmly ignored it and acted as if it had never happened.


	8. The Workings of a Weasley

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: Oi vey, if I owned Harry Potter, I promise you you'd be the first to know.

**The Workings of a Weasley**

The first breadcrumb on this particular morning was the forecast.

It was a seemingly pleasant forecast (but we all perfectly know that seemingly pleasant forecasts amounted to absolutely nothing now) with light snowfall raining down silently and softly from the sky, but the sky was without the heavy coat of dreaded gray, hinting to her that today was going to be a fairly amiable day. If she survived the dreaded company of slimy Draco Malfoy, that is – and the chances of that were quite slim. Only because he appeared to have this impeccable super power of showing up where his git face was not wanted. Of course, now she had been infected with his venereal _disease_ as well; was not her action of _complimenting_ him a surefire sign of some Very Terrible Illness? She ought to go get checked by Madam Pomfrey.

Hermione shook thoughts of said selfish cad away and thought to herself about her agenda and realized that she did not really have one today (which was not only bizarre, but BEE-_ZZAAAR_). Usually, she would be with Harry and Ron, whether it was watching them practice for Quidditch or just walking with them and chatting in the corridors or common room. Or scolding them about finishing their coursework and not procrastinating like they always did, whether she scolded them or not. People always called her their surrogate mother – a mother for when Ms. Weasley was not around. Not a very nice nickname when all you wanted to be was a _concerned_ friend, not their mother. Not very attractive to the male population, either. Probably why Ron stopped fancying her – when people had started comparing her to his mum.

Disastrous that was.

At the thought, she found herself staring longingly at the picture of the three of them on her desk, but shook her head and just sighed to herself, scolding herself about her codependence. It was true she missed them, and sometimes she missed them a horrendously large amount, but it was never enough for her to push aside all of her stubborn pride and apologize to Ron. She was taking a stand against codependency for girls everywhere, trying to prove that they did not need anyone but themselves.

Hermione frowned.

"Ginny has Quidditch practice today," she solemnly said to herself, her shoulders slouching.

But the newspaper came to her mind and she was suddenly cheered up. She knew she had quite a lot to do since the meeting last night was half a laugh and half not, therefore they did not get as much done as she expected. She could always think of more sections or ask around the castle for ideas on the newspaper – her being a notorious busybody. They had to announce the newspaper on Monday morning during breakfast, and she knew that she had enough time to make it work if she labored vigorously and speedily.

Grinning to herself while thinking of all the work to be done, yet still irked with the whole Ron situation, she went out the door and headed down to the Great Hall. She sat next to Ginny, as usual, who was "harmlessly flirting" with some boy she'd never even heard of. Hermione said her good morning that Ginny returned with a smile, her prettied lips glittering in the light of the Great Hall, as she slid into the spot next to her. She shooed the unknown boy away.

"Who's he?" asked Hermione, picking up a muffin.

"Richard Commore III," Ginny absentmindedly informed her.

"Is he important to you?"

She shrugged. "Not really. We just got to talking in a few of my classes, and he's agreed to help me with my quizzes if I pretended to be his girlfriend for a week or two to get some girl jealous."

"Does Seamus know about this?"

"Oh," Ginny tutted. "It doesn't matter. Seamus knows about my matchmaking project. He'll understand. D'you know what my philosophy is, Hermione?"

"Ruin everybody's lives?" Hermione dryly answered.

"While regrettably close, no. My philosophy is that if a person can figure out the way love works, that person will somehow, someway, find a foolproof way to dominate the world."

"Careful, Ginny. You're beginning to sound like a certain German dictator."

"Nonsense. Hitler doesn't know love like I do," Ginny scoffed. "But that's what I am aiming to achieve. Ginny Weasley, The Business of Love."

"I thought love was an art."

"Love can be anything," Ginny said, chewing on a strip of bacon. She was looking at Hermione pick apart her muffin, setting a few tiny pieces to the side of her plate. "Walnuts again?"

"Only one they had left. I'm allergic."

"You should try asking around the other tables. I'm sure they'd have some that you aren't allergic to. Anyway, I was just thinking about the meeting last night. Was my idea brilliant or what?" she beamed proudly, baring perfect white teeth.

Hermione scrutinized her teeth. How'd she get them so white?

"Never mind," said Ginny, dismissing it, waving her bacon in the air. "I already know your answer. 'Yes, Ginny, brilliant as always. Your stupendous creativity skills never ceases to amaze me.' But I wanted to ask something else. What was wrong with Blaise and Malfoy last night? They break up or something?"

Hermione shrugged. "Beats me. It's none of my business."

"Yeah, but I thought you'd have asked," Ginny pried. "Since you and Malfoy stayed in that room afterwards, when everybody left. And everybody noticed their animosity towards each other. Don't tell me you didn't say anything about it! Oh, Hermione! That was your chance!"

"Chance?" she repeated, wrinkling her nose at her delusional friend. "Chance for what?"

"To do me a favor, what else?" Ginny retorted. "I mean, I tried asking Blaise, but he shut me off."

"Did you mention the break-up thing?"

"Well." Ginny paused. "Yeah."

"Probably why." Hermione began to cautiously eat her muffin, picking off any ground walnuts she had missed, but then changed her mind and grabbed an apple. "Besides, I don't know why it's so important to you. The Slytherin business is dirty stuff. I wouldn't get involved if I were you."

"Spot on. But that's the difference between us, Hermione," she winked. "You aren't me."

Hermione laughed.

Thank God she was right.

Not that she had anything against Ginny. Ginny was one of her closest friends outside of Harry and Ron. But they were just two very different people. Feminine attributes aside and relation to Harry Potter, the similarities ended there.

"So what do you think about this newspaper thing?" Hermione asked her, wanting to know her opinion. "Do you think it'll work out?"

"You got me on staff, of course it's going to work out. And, well, why not? Newspapers take a lot of hard work, sure, but it's nothing we can't handle. And it isn't anything _too_ serious. Obviously we're supposed to stick to our guns – what we know."

Hermione nodded along, taking that into consideration, for there was a good deal of qualms she was wrestling with about Dumbledore's idea. She'd never worked something as big as a newspaper before. Maybe she could have her own S.P.E.W. page. Although, she'd already tried mentioning it to Malfoy the day before and before she'd even finished he'd already shut her out with a snort and one firm word: "No." Then he proceeded in telling her that nobody would read their newspaper if she put that nonsense on there.

Hermione'd wanted to kick him.

Fifteen minutes later, people began to retreat to their activities for the day. Hermione heard talk about some snowball fights out in the grounds because Seamus and Neville had already made a map and a blueprint of their fort. She reminded Ginny about her practice at the Pitch.

"Oh. Right," she said, an expression dawning on her face that made it obvious to Hermione that she had forgotten. "Yeah, I'd better hurry," she said, hastily sipping from her goblet. But then she looked over at Hermione, swallowing, before placing it back down. "What about you? What will you be doing all day?"

But Hermione, clever girl that she was, secretly knew that it was actually code for: "Oh no, you aren't going to be going to the _library_ again, are you?"

"I was thinking of going around Hogwarts and asking people for ideas for the newspaper. You know, get more of a specific diagram of what they want to see on the paper, so it could be a hit."

"Oh." Ginny winced. "I can't talk you out of that, can I?" Hermione shook her head firmly. "You can always come with me and watch us play," she suggested thoughtfully.

"Ron would ban me from the Pitch. Probably already has, now that I think about it."

"Doesn't matter," she said. "It's not like he owns it."

"No thanks," Hermione replied. "Besides, this newspaper business is very urgent, and we're supposed to announce it on Monday morning during breakfast. I've procrastinated enough. It's important that I have an idea on what we're actually doing. Or else this is all just going to be one major cock-up that people will still mention to me at our ten-year reunion. 'Oh, Hermione, remember when you totally botched up the newspaper launch and it was all shit and bugger?' Oh, joy."

"Oh, all right then. If you want, Hermione – and I'd only do this for you – I can bump into my brother awfully hard and make him fall off of his broom," she offered, a wild look in her eye.

"No thanks, Ginny," she said, although she really was silently considering it. "I don't want him to be angry with you too. It'll turn into an all out war."

Ginny shrugged, grinning. "Oh Hermione," she said. "If you had any brothers, you'd know that it's _always_ war."

Hermione took to her feet and stood as the meal was over, watching everyone start to head over to the doors. Ginny stood up beside her soon after and they walked to join the crowd rushing to get out of the doors, blending in amongst their eager peers with an anxious glint in their eyes and an overloaded agenda for the free day. They came to a slow stop and took dawdling steps for there was always traffic when it was the end of a meal, although weekends were not as bad as weekdays.

But just as they were out in the corridor, with the usual noisy chatter and laughter ringing throughout the hall, Ginny tugged at Hermione's arm.

Hermione turned to see what her friend wanted. "What is it?" she asked her as people casually passed by, brushing against her shoulders. A Slytherin, Pansy Parkinson, bumped against her elbow and sent her quite the meaningful scowl, calling her what Slytherin House had dubbed her: "Mudblood." She hissed uncannily like a snake with a tube stuck down its throat.

Nasal wench.

"You're going to ask around Hogwarts, right?" asked Ginny. Hermione nodded in return, feeling the harsh tingling from her funny bone. "When?"

"Right after I get my necessary supplies and equipment," she replied. "Why?"

Ginny ignored her question. She seemed very convinced on talking her out of her little excursion. "Where are you going to go? I overheard some people are going to be out in the snow. Seamus told me they were going to have a Snowball Fight Extraordinaire," she said. "You know, whatever it is they do out there."

"Well then, I'll go out there," said Hermione.

Ginny's brows hitched up her forehead. "By yourself?"

"Sure. Why not? I mean, I can take care of myself, can't I?" Hermione said a bit defensively. What was wrong with her going off by herself? She was a capable woman. She didn't need two bodyguards lugging around behind her. She took a few lessons on self-defense over the summer. Proof? Sensitive places on a man: shins, groin, between the eyes, eyeballs. Hit any one of those places with enough force and it'll make them drop like honey on a summer day.

Hermione oddly noticed Ginny's eyes flicker at something behind her, before she looked back at her and spoke. Hermione gave her a look, trying to figure out what evil plan was assembling in her friend's mischievous mind. She could have even sworn her hair had begun to glow a little more reddish.

"Why don't you go with Malfoy? He's Head Boy," she pointed out. "He's _supposed_ to be doing these things with you."

She scoffed. "What? And risk being tempted to punch his lights out and therefore getting suspended from my Head duties? No thanks, Gin."

"Oh, come on, Hermione. Don't be so uptight."

"I can take care of myself, thanks," she told her, emphasizing her words. "It isn't like I've never been out in the grounds before. I know my way around. I won't get lost."

"Still, you know. It doesn't hurt to have a little guidance — er, a little help," Ginny mended, once she saw Hermione's narrowed eyes glaring at her. "Just do it, in fact, do it as a favor to me. Ask him. I don't want you to go all out in the freezing snow by yourself. I know that Ron and Harry would usually go with you, and I hear they can be pretty downright brutal when they're equipped with hundreds of snowballs to pelt people with. I mean, I have proof. You should have seen Ron's back after one of their sessions. Bruises everywhere, like an extremely vulnerable peach."

"Ginny," Hermione said exasperatedly, "there is no way I'm going to ask _Malfoy_ to escort me around—"

"Around _where_, Granger?" a familiar drawl interrupted her, the squeak of expensive leather shoes stopping right behind her.

Hermione halted her words, blinking. Had she just heard –

_Malfoy_?

But after she had recovered from her short moment of shock (being wordless in the presence of Draco Malfoy for too long was a dangerous thing)(might give him the wrong idea, you know, that sort of thing), she gave Ginny a look of daggers, who, in return, merely gave her a sheepish smile.

Damn.

So this was how it was going to be from now on, huh?

She should have known.

She swallowed hard before she answered him, her mouth twisted into an unpleasant glower.

"Nowhere, Malfoy," she said venomously, still not turning around. She attempted to give him the hint to sod off from the clipped tone of her voice, but apparently he wasn't susceptible to those, either (stupid people, stupid people, stupid people every_where_). She could feel his eyes peering down on her, and her body felt stiff and frozen, her temperature subtly rising from her annoyance.

Really, again with his appearances. What was he?

Some bloody –

No good analogy for that right now.

"Are you sure? It sure seemed like it was something," he said in his usual bored tone. She could see the passing people around her giving them curious looks, and she thought that he would have shot his usual "Mudblood" remark and slithered away by now, considering the fact that they obviously had an audience, but she didn't hear that familiar hint of oncoming sharp-tongued insults lash out from his tongue.

"Actually, Malfoy," Ginny started.

Hermione's eyes widened, and Draco raised an eyebrow at the redhead, bringing his attention to the youngest Weasley. Hermione mouthed for her to stop, giving her a murderous look, but Ginny simply ignored her.

"She's going to walk around Hogwarts asking people for ideas they want to see on the paper, and she needs someone to go with her. _You're_ Head Boy. I think it only makes perfect sense if you accompany her."

"No," Hermione said quickly and sharply, through clenched teeth, "I do _not _need someone to go with me, Ginny."

"Are you sure, Granger?" his drawling voice suddenly cut in. "Some Death Eaters might suddenly come around and you just might end up screaming for your Hero Scarhead to come around to save you from the Mudblood hunters. . . ."

Hermione tensed, feeling her temper flare. She turned around to face him, and was tempted to take an instant step back, surprised to see that he was standing so close. But instead she glowered at him as nastily as she could.

Draco was smirking at her.

"Malfoy," she said tightly, her fists clenching. "I _don't_ need a baby-sitter, and it is highly unlikely any minions of Satan's is going to be parading around when _you're_ still here, since your scent is so repugnant that it repels even evil itself. And I think it would be utmost best for the both of us if you'd just mind your own sodding business. Now if you please, I have somewhere to be, and I assume you do too," she spat heatedly. "_Good day."_ And with that, she turned on her heel and stormed down the corridor.

Ginny, after a few moments, leaned in and sniffed Draco, who didn't notice until later on, when he jerked his shoulders and told her to sod off.

"Relax, monster, I was only checking. She isn't right, you know. You smell quite nice. Almost like a girl."

"Go away, Cherry."

"Not before you tell me that you're going to take care of her."

"Take care of her for what? Seems she's perfectly capable of taking care of herself – that mouth of hers is more than anybody can stand," Draco sneered. He began to mutter. "Hopefully she'd crack a rib or something –"

Ginny laughed very loudly. "Perfect! Her mouth and yours. Both witty and capable of spitting insults at the speed of light." She was smiling at him, which made Draco's stomach squirm very uneasily. "A perfect companion."

Draco looked at her as if she was loony. She probably was. He didn't even know what she was going on about because he assumed it was just something mad and half-witted. He tuned these sorts of people out.

"…And whatever happened between you and Blaise? You break up or something?"

Draco scowled. "I'm leaving."

"Is that a yes?" she called out.

He started to head to his room, whistling to himself the familiar composition, "War of the Mudbloods" by Boris V. Widdlethum. He had a feeling it'd be de rigueur for today.


	9. The Pleasure of Your Company

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: I hereby Disclaim Potter and Friends and even his Enemies and Inanimate Objects. For shizzle.

* * *

**Edited! (Just like everything else.)**

Quick note: Connor (who is introduced here) was actually named after Conor Oberst of Bright Eyes. But, yes, it is to pay homage to the Conor Oberst, my lover in a past life.

* * *

**The Pleasure of Your Company**

Hermione hastily said her password in a somewhat unnecessarily harsh manner, earning a glare from the portrait, but failing to notice as she stormed inside, infuriated by both Draco Malfoy and Ginny Weasley. She slammed the door behind her as she loudly asked what she had done to deserve such torment from a _friend_. Then that lead to wondering about what she had done to make Ginny Weasley act so hostile and insensitive towards her – shoving her into Malfoy's lap like she was some incapable fool and making it as if she needed to be babysat.

Because, damnit, Hermione Granger was a competent woman. A dignified one, at that.

Three minutes later, she finally calmed down.

She pushed herself to the edge of her bed, walked to her study desk and grabbed her worn and faded messenger bag, before emptying it and piling her things neatly on the desktop. She grabbed a few parchments and quills (thinking that maybe she would be spending some time in the library afterwards) along with an inkbottle, before she placed them in her bag. She put on her carrier as she slid the strap across her chest and looked around the room.

"I'm forgetting something," she mumbled to herself, a bothersome feeling nagging her inside. Suddenly, it hit her, and she made her way quickly to her bed. She hastily got down on her knees and reached underneath, patting searchingly, taking out a plain Muggle shoebox. She opened it and reached inside, searching through her papers and finally finding a small black gadget that easily fit in the palm of her hand. Her tape recorder.

She began to stuff the rest of her necessities in her bag, clumsily fumbling with her hair, before she made her way to leave. But as she turned the knob and silently opened the door, she wasn't aware quickly enough of the person standing in front of it, about to knock.

Draco Malfoy was looking in another direction, absentmindedly glaring at the direction of the portrait door that had harshly interrogated him as he reached to knock on her door. He didn't hear the creak of the door as it opened, and so the next thing he knew, his knuckles had collided with something solid and warm, hearing a loud, trill squeal. He abruptly looked in front of him, and tried his best to keep from laughing at the sight.

Hermione looked at him, wide-eyed with a look that was a blend of both fear and surprise, as he knocked on her forehead. She let out a squeal as his knuckles came into contact and gave a hard and swift knock.

Draco immediately drew back his hand, laughter twinkling in his cool gray eyes. Hermione was rubbing her forehead with her palm, squinting her eyes closed in pain, her face creased angrily.

"Bloody hell, Granger," he said to her, surprise and amusement flittering across his lips. "What happened to the door?"

Hermione opened her eyes and ceased her effort of trying to ease her pain, scowling up at him. She looked ridiculous. Her forehead was now a blotchy pink. "I _opened_ it, Malfoy, and you would have seen if you had been paying attention to what was in _front_ of you," she spat.

Draco laughed at her and did not bother to hide it.

"It isn't funny, Malfoy," she said to him, still obviously upset about the earlier incident.

"Of course it's not, Granger," he said, still chuckling under his breath. "Not to you, but to _me_ it's bloody hilarity, compared to these dull castle walls and zombies. I say, Granger, you have a pretty solid forehead."

Hermione rolled her eyes, giving him an annoyed sigh, knowing that he had meant that more to be an insult than anything else. (Draco Malfoy was not bestowed the ability to give out compliments or nice words, just like the way Hermione had been born without the ability to roll her tongue.) She closed the door behind her, taking a small step forward.

"Malfoy, I don't have time for your remarks," she said to him, irked by just his presence alone, yet her heart beat erratically in her chest as he stood frighteningly close to her. There was something terrifying intimate about the way he looked down at her, smirking, his face just inches from her own. She unknowingly shivered. Then, for some very strange reason, she began to think about that night in the Meeting Room, and it made her a little nervous. Lately he'd been surprising her (well, it was _rare_, but it wasn't as rare as _before_) and she didn't know what to think about that.

"I have something I have to do. Now, if you don't mind, would you just kindly move so I can get on my way?" She'd have pushed him, but she was afraid to touch him. She might contract another disease or something.

"Granger, didn't you hear Weasley? I'm _Head Boy_. It's my duty to come along on these escapades of yours to make sure you don't make a complete, utter fool of yourself _and_ the newspaper. For all I know, all you're going to be doing is parading around that SPROUT nonsense."

"It's S.P.E.W.," Hermione harshly corrected. "And no, I'm not. But thanks for the idea. Maybe another time."

Hermione tried to step to the side in an attempt to get past him, but he had instantly predicted her actions and stepped to the side also, blocking her way. Her brow twitched threateningly.

"I'm perfectly capable of doing something by myself without looking like a fool," she bitterly informed him.

"Your compulsive lying's getting a little predictable."

"Malfoy, just get out of my way before I give into the tempting urge of hexing you," she threatened him, not in the mood for his remarks. First he nearly muddles up the meeting with his tardiness and hostile situation with Blaise, and now he was delaying her progress with the newspaper even more! She was curious: was he _paid_ to be this bothersome?

Knowing him, he probably paid himself.

"Nonsense," he said to her, nonchalant. "You don't have your wand."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, wondering how he could know such a thing, before they suddenly widened, patting down her pockets and quickly looking into her bag, searching for her wand.

Bollocks.

She turned around to head back into her room to retrieve it, but remembered that he was still here and came to a dead halt. She couldn't just announce her password in front of him and let him gain free access to her room. Who knew what the evil prick would do? Something terrible, she guessed.

She turned to him again, licking her lips unconsciously, clear disdain written all across her features. "Malfoy, don't you have somewhere to be?" she asked him impatiently. "Any ladies to entertain? What about gentlemen? Is that more your area?"

Draco smirked at her, though not so pleased with her little quip. But he knew that letting his revulsion show to her would be a vast blunder that would delay any further activity. And Draco was all action – less talk preferred. Okay, that was a lie. But still – talking to _Granger_? That sort of talk was degrading. "Granger, it is my duty as Head Boy to—"

"I bloody know what Head duties _are_, thank you!" she tartly snapped at him. "Can you please just leave so I can say my bloody password and get inside my room to retrieve my wand?"

Draco snorted at her, crossing his arms. "Granger, keep your knickers on." Hermione glared at him. "You don't need your wand."

"Are you _insane_, Malfoy?"

"No, I'm afraid _you're_ the insane one. I'm coming with you, whether you like it or not, and I've got my wand. And I highly doubt that any monsters or trolls are going to be wandering the corridors, Granger."

"Don't you dare toy with me. I'm not in the mood."

"I can see that, Granger," he told her, also becoming edgy. "Now let's get on with this sodding walk. I can only stand to be around you for so long, even if it's for the sake of the bloody newspaper."

Hermione sighed, defeated, indeed knowing that he wouldn't go away even if she had begged him to. She knew that she would have been much more friendlier if he had been sincere (hah! What a nice joke), but she knew all too well that Draco Malfoy was not capable of sincerity. She knew he had to have some trick up his sleeve. Maybe he had gathered a few of his housemates and was planning to suddenly ambush her once they got out into the snow.

"You're going to hex me," she said to him, scowling. "I just know it."

Draco gave her a smirk, his eyes twinkling naughtily.

Hermione wondered how it was possible for anyone to smirk as much as he did. She wondered if it was some disease or disorder. That would certainly make sense.

"Only if I'm tempted to," he taunted her.

Hermione rolled her eyes before firmly and finally pushing him out of the way and walking down the common room to the passage.

"Hex me, and I'll shatter your shins."

"Yeah, whatever, you lunatic."

ooooo

Hermione placed a hand in her bag, searching for her recorder.

Draco had finally caught up to her, and stared curiously at what she held in her hand as she got it out. "And what in Merlin's name is _that_?" he asked her, sounding appalled, but Hermione could hear inside his voice that he was interested.

A taser. To kill you.

"A voice recorder, Malfoy," she simply said, her frustration having faded a while ago whilst they had been searching the corridors for a full twenty minutes. She was disappointed with the taser thing. Man, she _wished_. "It's a Muggle gadget used for recording voices and information."

Draco raised an eyebrow at her and her new, somewhat nifty Muggle toy, but stayed silent as she noticed they were in step with each other, their pace and strides in sync.

"This is _total_ bollocks," he complained as they turned into another empty corridor. "It seems as if this whole damn school's deserted. Where on _earth_ could they have all gone? The idiot convention?"

"Their dormitories," she replied. "Or outside. Ginny told me that she overheard that some were to have a bit of fun with the snow." She looked at Malfoy, who was apparently dressed down for any of the winter weather they were supposed to walk out in. "I should have suggested a cloak," she said to him, and he turned his attention over to her, his jaw slack.

"What?"

"I said I should have told you to bring a cloak or something to keep you warm."

"Wait. You're not saying we're _actually_ going out there with those fools, are you?"

"Malfoy, we need their opinions for this. And they're all out _there_," she gestured.

Draco was annoyed with her gesticulation. He hadn't been aware he'd had to go out _there_. "Granger, we're going to get the bloody pulp _snowballed_ out of us when we step out there," he remarked, and Hermione only laughed.

"Well, you've got your wand, haven't you? Use a spell."

"And what about you?" he said sharply.

Hermione shrugged, actually looking forward to taking a walk through the snow. She hadn't been outside in the grounds in such a long time it was almost as if she had forgotten how fresh air smelt and felt like. She knew that she probably reeked of dust all over. "I'll manage."

Draco looked at her and shook his head, chuckling. "You don't stand a chance, Granger."

When they reached the door to the outer-grounds of Hogwarts, Hermione couldn't help but softly smile as the winter chill collided against her skin and jolted her nerves. It seemed to awaken her even more, and it never failed to remind her of her younger years, bringing her the sweet pinch of nostalgia. She shivered, beaming at all the clean and uncontaminated snowfall. She inhaled the traces of frost in the air, her lungs singing out a pristine victory, and as she exhaled she saw the white vapor from her lips before it quickly disappeared.

"Well," she said, turning to him. Oddly, Draco found that he was somewhat awestruck at the way her cheeks had turned a rosy hue in the short amount of time that they had been out here. Her eyes twinkled with anticipation, and Draco shivered slightly, but waved it off as simply something from the cold.

"What about your spell? Once we get out into the war grounds, they won't give you a chance to protect yourself," she said, smiling prettily for a reason Draco could not fathom at all.

Casting his incongruent thoughts of her aside, Draco nodded and drew his wand, tapping the tip on his forehead, and Hermione saw an invisible sheen suddenly cover him. He was just about to put his wand back in his pocket, but then halted and looked up at her uneasily. "What about you?" he asked her, reminding them both of their earlier conversation. She only smiled in a way that made something in Draco's stomach suddenly flutter, unsettling him.

He silently wondered what he was doing offering to _protect_ her with one of his spells. He immediately regretted it, because he really wanted to see her get snowballed to a pulp. And it was quite sad, but Granger was just _annoying_ to him, sometimes, you know? The sort of person you would actually pay to see something bad happen to.

"I'll manage," she said wistfully, looking around, repeating her earlier response. Draco looked at her curiously, but slid his wand back into his pocket, telling her that it was her funeral. Hermione looked back at him, putting her recorder safely into her bag. She nodded wordlessly, not appearing to have heard him in all of her joy in the winter wonderland, and they went on their way.

Hermione looked around and heard distinct yelling from the distance. She cautiously looked through the blindingly white snow and saw that she could see a blurred figure just ahead of them. The snow was fresh underneath their shoes and made a supple noise as they walked, and Hermione noticed how coordinated Malfoy seemed to be beside her. She teetered sometimes, stepping into areas where the snow was deeper than the others, but he seemed as if he was gliding above the snow, which secretly annoyed her. Nevertheless, they were silent as they simply walked onward, not exactly knowing which area their peers had chosen as their battleground.

Hermione smiled to herself as they came closer, but was baffled at how the figure had suddenly vanished. She stopped and peered around, feeling the cold tingles in her veins. Just then, she felt a fluttering breeze and a soft shifting in the snow, and Hermione's eyes widened.

But before she could move to protect herself, a forceful, cold impact hit her square in the stomach. Her mouth flew open as she leaned over, clutching her stomach and feeling the bits of ice in her fingers and jumper.

'_Cold… cold… very, _very_ cold. . . ._'

She quickly straightened as she hastily recovered from the sudden hit, trying to brush off the snow that was quickly soaking through her clothes and making her skin buzz from the bitter moisture. She heard a sniggering, and sighed irritatingly, immediately knowing that it was Draco.

She turned to him, glaring. "Malfoy, you're—"

She didn't get to finish her sentence, however, as there was a sudden yell that shattered the silence on the grounds. Draco stopped sniggering in a split-second, and his eyes widened with alarm, as Hermione felt her heart leap in surprise and dread.

'_Oh, bugger.' _

"Attack!" she heard a voice shout, and suddenly, she found herself getting hit by dozens of snowballs all at once.

oooo

Hermione hadn't even had the chance to see the figures emerge from their hiding places, for the next thing she knew, more than thirty snowballs had knocked the breath out of her. She heard their warrior yells, the sound of cold snowballs brutally colliding into her body, and the winter chill stung her harshly, but she could not really think straight except for the fact that she should have taken up Draco's offer when she had a chance.

And now, she really did regret having turned him down.

She heard laughter echoing around them before she could feel that the speeding snowballs had suddenly lessened and slowed down, but as she felt them finally cease their coming, she collapsed to her knees, laughing.

She hadn't had such a rush in months, and she couldn't help but be so thrilled. She could feel the icy water soak through her clothes and it hit her body with the cutting and sharp impact that she had yearned for. She could feel the dampness of her hair, the frosty moisture on her hands and neck, and the winter breeze sing in victory of their ambush. Her heart was racing and thundering in her chest and she was out of breath from her hearty laughter. They probably thought she was a madwoman to be laughing at what she was, but she didn't really care.

When she had finally calmed her giggles, she noticed a hand extended in front of her and took it, getting up. She brushed herself off, still smiling widely, and looked up to see Draco looking at her. She then realized that he had been the one to help her up, and she smiled at him gratefully. She looked around, seeing some familiar Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and Slytherins (not many, however, which was not a surprise) talking excitedly and laughing with one another, gathering more snow for snowballs and future ambushes.

"I warned you," he said to her.

Hermione laughed again. "I know. But I think I needed that," she said, beaming and welcoming the winter, even though it had been already here for months.

Draco turned his head and looked at her, feeling bizarre to see her so excited and delighted. He had expected her to be angry and annoyed, but he had been obviously proved wrong. He noticed the way her smile reached her eyes, and the way her eyes glittered much more brightly than he had ever seen. He knew that she was utterly happy, and, somehow, he couldn't stop looking at her radiantly flushed face. He couldn't help but think: had he ever seen anyone so happy over such a simple thing? That mere fact made him particularly antsy to get their whole excursion done with.

"Hermione!"

Hermione looked over in the direction of the voice calling her and spotted Seamus Finnigan, one of her fellow Gryffindors, waving to her.

"Seamus!" she exclaimed, waving back. She turned to Draco, glee in her voice. "Would you mind?" she asked him, motioning over to Seamus. "I'd like to talk with him for a bit." Draco shook his head, careless for the time being, and Hermione's smile widened as she turned and walked towards a dark haired boy that Draco recognized. Draco sighed, looking around with a bad feeling cropping in his chest, before following after her.

Hermione reached him and noticed that he had some sort of shield fort put up, enchanted to keep the ambusher invisible from the front. She smiled at its ingenuity.

"Sorry for the sudden attack, Hermione," Seamus apologetically said to her, brushing himself off. Hermione shook her head, still grinning happily. "When I saw it was you, I tried to get them to hold back, but they make no exceptions."

Hermione giggled. "It's no problem, Seamus," she said.

"I tried to get Malfoy, but it seems he had some sort of protection spell on him," he shrugged, making no attempt to hide his disappointment. Hermione nodded, before she heard footsteps behind her. Seamus looked at her oddly and curiously before his eyes flickered to behind her. Hermione knew it was Draco, and sighed, knowing the thoughts rolling around in her fellow Gryffindor's mind.

"I hope you don't mind," she said, quickly, suddenly ashamed that Malfoy was with her. She didn't want it to look like they were _hanging out_ or anything. "We're on Heads business." Seamus shook his head, but Hermione clearly saw that he was disturbed by Draco's presence. He kneeled down again, gathering up snow for more snowballs, and Hermione got down on her knees as well, helping him.

"So, what kind of Heads business?" he asked her, as he gathered snow and shaped it with his gloved hands.

"We're supposed to go around and ask certain questions about newspapers to people," she answered, making a snowball. "You know, so we could get an idea on what you lot are interested in on our next project."

Seamus looked up at her. "Oh yeah, the newspaper, right? Dean and Ginny were talking about it the other day. It sounds exciting. Wait, was that confidential business?"

"Actually, it _was_, Finnigan," she heard Draco irritably say above her. "Really, Granger, you should tell your Gryffindor friends to keep their mouths shut about these things. If they really were for everyone to know, then it wouldn't be a prefect and Heads meeting alone, would it? We'd have a meeting with the whole sodding school."

Seamus glared up at him, and Hermione sighed.

"Ignore him," she mouthed to Seamus, and he nodded slowly.

"I saw that, Granger," he said annoyingly. She then realized that he was still standing over them.

"Malfoy, don't be such a prick," she dryly said to him, as she gathered more snow. "You're the one who wanted to come along." Draco snorted in reply, and she rolled her eyes.

"Anyway," Seamus said, doing just as Hermione had told him, "I'd love to help you, if you're still willing to ask me later."

Hermione smiled up at him. "Really, Seamus? That'd be great! Thanks!"

Seamus grinned at her, and Draco silently gagged.

Seamus took a look at his wristwatch and looked up and nodded to a Ravenclaw across the path. "It's about five minutes until the snowball fight," he informed Hermione.

Hermione looked up at him, her eyes bright with excitement. "Really? Do you mind if I join in?" she asked eagerly, her face shining.

He raised an eyebrow, but chuckled thoughtfully. "No, it'd be a pleasure. But don't you think you're dressed a bit under the weather?"

Draco's eyebrows furrowed, only just comprehending what she had said and realizing what she had done. "Wait, Granger," he said, suddenly kneeling down and grabbing her arm. She looked towards him; surprised, yet more surprised at the hand he had firmly clutching her limb. "What did you just say?"

"I'm going to join the snowball fight," she told him, looking at him as if he had just confessed his unconditional love for Muggles and all Muggle things, wondering what his problem was.

"We're here to ask questions to random students for the newspaper!" he said to her. "Not to snowball fight!"

"I didn't say _you_ had to, Malfoy," she said angrily, jerking her arm away.

"We're going to be wasting our time," he growled.

"Malfoy, why don't you just leave, if it's such a problem?" Seamus suddenly said, obviously fed up with him. Draco's gaze flickered over to Seamus, and shot him a fierce glower. Hermione swallowed hard, trying to think of something to stop this. Why was it that wherever Malfoy went, trouble followed him as well? Oh, wait – because he _caused_ it!

"Finnigan, sod off. This is none of your damn business," he snapped.

"If she wants to stay, then she can stay. No one's asking _you_ to," he crossly said to Draco.

Draco's eyes darkened, and his expression hinted danger. "Don't _you_ have a girlfriend to attend to?" he hissed.

Seamus scowled, and Hermione quickly turned so that she faced Draco, blocking Seamus from his view.

"Malfoy, calm down," she said to him, not wanting to let the two boys get carried away. Why was Malfoy so impatient, anyhow? _He_ was the one who wanted to come along. If he hated being here so much, he should be clever enough that he had the prerogative to leave. It'd be perfectly fine to Hermione. She didn't need a bodyguard.

Draco glared at her. "Granger, we're wasting our time here. This is total rubbish, and _you_ know it."

"Look, Malfoy," she said in a clipped tone. "I _want_ to stay. You, however, are not bound to this duty, so _you_ can _leave_."

Draco's jaw set as he clenched his teeth. His gaze was icy as it pierced through her, and she knew that he was indeed very angry. "Granger, are you a dimwit, or what?" he snapped at her coldly. "You work so hard on this damn newspaper, and you're going to _waste_ your time on a snowball fight? How dense can you _get_?"

Hermione's eyes sharpened, as she looked at him defiantly. "Everyone's allowed a little fun now and then," she said stiffly, her fists clenching. "Even me."

"Uh, Hermione, I think you should know—"

"Shut up, Finnigan, no one asked _you_," Draco barked at Seamus harshly, his eyes still on Hermione. "We've got to get this done. You can have your 'fun' when we've got this accomplished, okay?"

"_No_, Malfoy," she said stubbornly. "_You_ can leave. I never asked you to come anyway. If you hate being here so much, then I think it would be best if you'd just turn around, keep that way, and walk straight back towards the castle."

"Hermione, I really think—"

"Shut up, Seamus," Hermione said cruelly, giving no attention to her housemate, as Draco glowered at her.

"But Hermione, you should—"

"I said, _not now_, Seamus."

"Granger, we're _going_," Draco suddenly said, and he grabbed her by the arm and stood so abruptly that she hadn't a clue what he was doing until she had been dragged out of Seamus' fort. She could hear Seamus behind her yelling in protest and some curses at Draco, but she drowned it out as she swiftly gathered her energy and tried to pull away from him. He then held her tighter, and her arm was beginning to ache from his tight grasp.

"Let go, Malfoy!" she yelled at him, raising her other hand and trying to pry his steel-like fingers from her arm. "Let go of me! I'm _not_ going!" She kicked her feet at him, but she felt the moisture of the freezing snow soak into her jeans, and he only managed to drag her faster. She could hear more people shouting at him, telling him to let her go, but he only continued to drag her. "Let me go, Malfoy!" she yelled shrilly, pain shooting up from her arm. "I mean it! _You let me go right this second!"_

"_No!"_ he said to her firmly.

"Hey, you let her go!" she heard someone yell.

"Let her go, Malfoy!"

"Malfoy, _damn_ it, let me bloody _go_!" she screamed. People were throwing snowballs at him now, but he was unaffected, due to his spell.

Another regret.

'_Bollocks! I shouldn't have told him to put on that bloody spell! Damn it!'_

Just then, she saw his wand peeking out from the back pocket of his trousers and something went off in her head like a bright, shrilling siren. She knew what she had to do. She reached up, as high as she could, leaning forward, trying to reach his wand, but wasn't able to.

"You're going to cut off my blood circulation!" she screamed. Her shout was not entirely false – she really did believe in this. His hand was clasping her arm in an iron grip and if his nails had been at least a bit grown out, he would have drawn blood from her by now.

Suddenly, she heard rapid footsteps approaching from behind her, and the next thing she knew, someone had wrapped their arms around her and was trying to pull her away from Draco. Draco noticed the sudden struggle and turned, pulling at her other arm. He still had that icy edge in his eyes as she demanded for him to let her go.

"Let her _go_!" she heard the person behind her say. She was shocked as she recognized that the voice was deep and… belonged to a boy.

"Fine," he suddenly said, and with one final vicious tug from him, he let go, sending both Hermione and the boy who had been helping her to rocket back, crashing backwards into the snow.

Hermione was breathing hard, feeling pulses of pain throbbing inside her body, as she opened her eyes and saw the boy who had been holding her giving her a worried look. But when he asked her if she was okay, she merely pried off his arms and ran towards the retreating back of Draco. Once she was right behind him, she reached for his wand and succeeded in grabbing it. She grinned evilly at his wand, immaculately smooth and polished in her hands, halting, then walking rapidly backwards as she called out his name.

"Malfoy!" she yelled to his back. "_Malfoy! _Turn around!" He stopped and turned around with a dark expression, Hermione waving his wand in the air, showing him what she held captive. His eyes widened as he reached back and came out empty-handed. He glowered at her menacingly, anger glittering in his stormy eyes.

"I've _got_ your wand," she said breathlessly, her breath coming out a white cloud. "I've got it."

"Granger, _give_ it back to me," he said through clenched teeth.

"_No!"_ she heard someone shout from behind her, now only just aware that they had an audience.

"Don't give it to him!"

"_No,"_ she said sweetly. "I _don't_ think I should."

Draco's hands clenched into tight fists as his anger towered higher and higher.

"_Damn it_, Granger, I _demand_ you give it back to me," he said again. Her sickeningly sweet and taunting smile stirred something inside him; his annoyance and irritation growing like budding cancer.

"Or else _what_?" she laughed.

Draco, fed up, started towards her. Hermione immediately turned and started into a run, propelling herself with thoughts of giving him what he deserved. He then sped up, sprinting after her, knowing very well that he and his long legs had an advantage over her.

Hermione ran as fast as she could, but was soon aware of his rapid footsteps right behind her.

Boy, how she hated fast runners something terrible.

"Granger! Give it _back_ to me!" he yelled threateningly.

"_No_!" she yelled, urging her legs to faster.

Draco went at his full sped, holding out his arms, and the next thing he knew, he had collided with something warm and soft but damp, a high-pitched shriek filling his ears before they both fell downwards into the snow.

Hermione's eyes widened in surprise and fear as she felt him suddenly crash into her and she let out a scream, his arms wrapping tightly around her waist, before they both fell first into the snow. He was on top of her with her back to him and her face to the ground as he pinned her down. She tried to jerk away from underneath him and his arms that held her around the waist so tightly, but he used his weight against her and it was no use. She was moving violently, scrawling like a worm to get free, but he was too strong and his body was solid against her.

"Give me back _my wand_," he said against her ear, his voice hoarse and rough, as she tightly clutched the wand in her hand. There were yells from all over the grounds, and she could hear some people running, but she knew just what to do. She kicked as hard as she could and Draco grunted, his grip loosened, and she twisted around, becoming face to face with him. Their faces, she realized with a thumping heard, were not even an inch apart.

She felt an odd warmth fill her stomach and flare from her heart, feeling tingles that she knew well enough were not from the chill or snow, realizing their intimate position. But she, the sensible person that she was, ignored all this. She could feel his breaths on her, his angry, piercing gray eyes boring into hers, before she finally moved her arm from his grip-lock, and she tapped his forehead quickly and muttered a spell.

Draco's heart seemed to race impossibly fast as she shifted and turned her body around to face him. He felt a sudden knot in his throat and aridity in his mouth that made his mind to rapidly jolt with sparking, sinful thoughts, suddenly realizing just what sort of position they were in. A blanket of heat had started to flood inside his stomach and rose all the way to his throat, sending shivers through his body, just noticing how soft she felt underneath him.

But this all seemed to disappear when he was suddenly aware of what she was doing, but had caught on far too late. She tapped his forehead, muttered a spell in heavy breaths, and the next thing he knew, the cold hit him like a ton of bricks, and he was left wide-eyed from the sudden, sharp impact of the chill.

He could feel her body vibrating from laughter, her feminine giggles filling his ears.

When he shook off the frosty shock, he scowled at her, and reached for his wand, but she still wouldn't let go. His hand clasped over hers, and as soon as his fingers tightened around her small fist, he felt tremors rocket up his body once again. He felt as if he was holding a solid block of ice. Her hand felt frozen.

"Granger," he growled to her. "You're going to _pay_ for that, I _swear_ it."

She only smiled, and that was when Draco knew that she was up to something. He'd seen this smile of hers before. It was the smile of a wily minx.

The next thing she did, he felt a punch of dread and a mixture of other emotions blended with the frosty cold indent in his gut.

"_Attack_!" she suddenly shouted very loudly, and before Draco could even let his mind take in what was about to happen, he was hit with what seemed like dozens of snowballs all at once.

oooo

Hermione was completely soaked from head to toe, her clothes damp and stained from the freezing water and snow, but as she shivered violently, she was laughing.

"You're bloody mad, do you know that, Granger?" Draco said to her, but her response to him was only to laugh harder.

She looked at him and was surprised to see that he had this strange expression on his face. His lips were pressed into a firm line, trying to seem irritated and bothered, but she knew better. His clothes were just as soaked as hers were, and she could see him tremor slightly from the cold, but he wasn't nearly as angry with her as he was before. She sincerely smiled at him, seeing how his blond hair was damp and muddled, his cheeks painted in a rosy tint.

Hermione shook that thought away as her body trembled with quivers again. She couldn't help but blush at the way she remembered he had held onto her much more tightly and pulled her closer to him after they had started aiming their snowballs at him, but managed to shove such frivolous, _bad_ thoughts away.

There was distinct conversation and laughter as she slowly got to her feet. She saw that Malfoy was still trying to get to his feet, so she held out a hand. Surprisingly, he took it without hesitation.

They were both covered with both snow and freezing water as they brushed themselves off, and she heard Seamus call her name. She turned around and beamed at him.

"Good call, Hermione," he chuckled, out of breath, when he reached her.

Hermione laughed, hearing Draco begrudgingly scoff beside her.

"Thanks, Seamus," she happily said to him.

"Well, we're going to go for a bit of a break, so you can ask me those questions now. Oh, wait, do you mind if I call a friend over? He's interested in answering, too."

Hermione shook her head, looking down at her wet clothes.

"Connor!" she heard him yell as he motioned for a boy to come over.

Hermione smiled, as she recognized the boy who walked over to them, smiling. He had bright blue eyes and sandy blond hair, and she knew that he had been the one who attempted to pull her away from Draco.

"Hey," she said, holding out her hand. He shook it, smiling and looking at her in a way that suddenly made her feel nervous inside.

"Pleasure," he said to her.

Draco watched the interaction between the two and noticed the way the boy had toned his response to her. Disgusting. If the boy wanted to shag her, all he had to do was ask. Granger would probably say no (just because she was most boring prude he knew), but at least there was no use for pretending to _not_ want to get in her pants all the while calling it My Natural Charm.

Though, if you asked him, he had as much charm as a blast-ended newt.

Connor looked over at Draco, noticed the look on his face, and didn't offer a hand. "Hey," he nodded at him simply, and Draco simply did what he did best: sneering. He wasn't going to shake hands with a boy dim-witted enough to want to shag Granger. His insanity might rub off on him.

"So, what was it you wanted to ask?" Seamus asked Hermione.

"Oh, yes," Hermione said, plunging a hand into her bag, and retrieving her recorder. Seamus eyed it suspiciously and Hermione opened her mouth to explain, but someone got to it first.

"It's a voice recorder," Connor said, lapsing into a fit of chuckles. "It's a gadget that records voices and what people say back in the Muggle World. Merlin, I haven't seen one of those in ages," he laughed.

Draco looked pinched.

A-_hah_. That boy really wanted to _do_ her.

Hermione smiled at him, nodding. "That's right," she said to him, and he only grinned.

"Okay," she said, checking it. "Which of you would like to go first?"

"I'll go," said Seamus.

"All right then," she said. She pressed the RECORD button, and started with her questions.

When she was done with her assortment of short questions, Hermione pressed the STOP button and smiled at him. "Thanks, Seamus, you're free to go."

Seamus nodded and stepped back. It was then that Connor stepped towards Hermione, and Draco rolled his eyes, looking away, scowling. Lord, he was _freezing_.

"All right then," she said. "We can start." She pressed the button, and the tiny red light came on, indicating that it was already recording.

"Do you read the Daily Prophet?"

"Yes, I do," he grinned at her, and Draco snorted.

She asked him a few more questions relating to his interests in newspapers: his favorite pages to read and what he'd like most to improve about the Daily Prophet, before she flashed that same brilliant smile again and pressed another button and the red light vanished.

Draco, all the while, secretively squirmed.

Was it just him or was the cold feeling a bit different today?

"Thank you, Connor. It's been a pleasure, and again, thanks for your time," she smiled.

Draco felt relief course through him when she announced that they could finally leave. He couldn't stand the boy.

"Wait," said Connor, and Draco froze, watching them with narrowing eyes and growing impatience. "You look like you're freezing," he observed thoughtfully. "Would you like to take my coat?"

Draco swallowed hard, stunned at his offer, feeling that same stinging sensation inside him as he looked over at his partner. Merlin's breeches. The old coat trick. This boy had no shame.

Hermione felt the blood rush to her face, knowing that a boy had never offered his coat to her before. Obviously she didn't know that it was almost like a token… of sex.

"No, I couldn't," she stammered, surprised. "I'll be just fine. Thanks, anyway. You're really sweet."

This time, it was her whom Draco sent a glare to.

"You're going to get ill," he said to her, worriedly. "Here, how about I just put a spell on you to keep you warm until you get into the castle?"

'_Well then, let her get ill, you moron!'_ Draco wanted to tell him.

Hermione sighed, smiling appreciatively and pleasantly as she looked over at Draco. Surprisingly, she saw him glaring daggers at Connor, and she mentally wondered what was wrong with him. Again.

"I suppose that would be fine," she replied. Connor smiled and drew his wand. Draco had the impulse to snatch his wand and snap it in half, but he found himself stiff with an emotion ridiculously close to anger. And how dare she take someone else's offer after he himself had offered to enact a spell on her? Just who did she think she was?

Connor stepped forward and gingerly tapped his wand on her forehead, enacting a simple warmth spell, and instantly Hermione felt comforting and flooding heat fill and blanket her as she sharply sucked in a breath. The warmth lowered into her fingers, seeping into her veins, and almost drowned her sweetly as it flowed into her lungs. Her face flushed.

"Thanks," she managed to say, after savoring the affects of the spell. She could no longer feel the sharp prickles of the cold now, just the warmth rushing through her pulse and veins to remedy the frostiness she had suffered from during the time she had been out here, with no protection from the weather.

"No problem," he grinned at her, tucking back his wand.

"Do you _want_ me to leave you two rabbits alone?" Draco finally snapped, fed up with their flirting. "Or are we actually going to get some work done, eh, Granger?"

Hermione was shocked and confused. "W-what?"

He sighed impatiently. "Do you really not know what's going on here? Are you really that dense? Well, _okay_," he said. "_He_" – Draco nodded to the boy – "wants to shag you, and _you_ are stalling, because you obviously did not know that."

"Malfoy!" Hermione said, very clearly angry with him, and the boy beside her was glaring at him.

"Right, whatever, I'm leaving," he said to her. "I'm already too nauseous just from what I've seen. Good luck. I hope you tap that." And then he started to leave, sneering, feeling this weird tangled knot inside his stomach. God, somebody _tapping_ Granger? That was just… _weird_.

He wasn't aware of the footsteps running after him after a few moments, the crunching of the snow behind him, or the hurried apology to the boy they'd just "met." What he _was_ aware of was the sudden blinding pain on the back of his head where Granger's plastic recorder collided with his skull, and he started to yell at her all of these obscene things while she only scowled at him.

"Do you really have to be a complete and total git to people we've just _met_?" she said, once they started walking again, and he kept his distance from her, because obviously, she had very good aim when throwing plastic-yet-doesn't-weigh-like-plastic-in-fact-it-weighs-a-lot-enough-to-concuss-him Muggle instruments of DOOM. In fact, she had to practically yell it for him to hear.

"It's just the way I am, Granger," he called back to her, still feeling the aching on the back of his head. He put his hand where she'd hit him and flinched, feeling the bump that was starting to form there. "Damn, I think you gave me a bruise."

He didn't see her, but he could hear a smirk in her voice. "Good."

"Sadist."

"Prick."

"Virgin."

"Chlamydia."

And then he looked at her, and she exploded into laughter before she began to jump around, her hair bouncing in the air. She began to yell about how she finally got him, checkmated him, or something, and he could only roll his eyes as her laughs echoed through the grounds, making the snow seem a whole lot brighter than it had been before.

**Please review!**


	10. The Complexity of First Names&Surnames

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: Me owning Harry Potter would be a dream. But this is reality. Catch my drift?

* * *

**Edited!**

Shout out to Jordan. Hollleeerrrrrr.

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**The Complexity of Surnames and First Names**

Hermione found herself awakening to the sound of loud tapping on her window. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, stretching to get her body out of its tired and stiff state. She looked towards the direction of the bothersome noise, surprised to see that the curtain had already been pushed aside to reveal an owl flapping its wings outside her window, one of its talons rapping against her window with so much force that she was afraid the glass might shatter.

Hermione could clearly see that the owl had a somewhat irritated look on its face, and besides the expected bewilderment considering the question of owls and expressions of human emotion, she strangely thought that the owl reminded her of someone. Sensing its urgency, she clumsily untangled herself from her sheets and wobbly walked towards the window. She turned the knob, unlocking the window, before she pushed it out and the owl swooped in so quickly that she emitted a tiny squeal of surprise. Before she had a chance to turn to the direction where the owl had flown, she heard its fluttering wings, and it landed right in front of her, beside her windowpane.

The owl was oddly familiar, and, judging by its look of superiority and arrogance (Merlin, what was it about its face?), she knew it couldn't be a mere school owl. The owl cocked its head at her impatiently, its large yellow eyes staring at her in a way that sent shivers up her spine. It was coated in dark feathers, making its eyes seem to glow in eerie contrast.

Hermione reached for the letter it held, but the owl suddenly dove its beak at her hand, harshly pecking her. She let out a surprised squeak as she stepped back in alarm. She cradled her hand, and looked down as she found a small wound by her thumb, a spot of blood slowly oozing out.

The owl hooted at her, and she could've sworn it was sniggering.

She looked back up at the impeccably monstrous animal, her mouth twisted into a very unpleasant scowl. She swore under her breath, giving it a warning look before heading to find something to dab her wound with.

She came back with a white piece of cloth pressed against her hand, knitting her eyebrows at the owl in annoyance. She tried to figure out just how she could get the letter without the owl trying to attack her again. She tried to observe the owl, and she was struck with the same uncanny familiarity. Hermione suddenly thought of a simple idea, heading over to her owl's cage and fetching out a small treat that Hermione would give Guinevere whenever she was restless or hungry.

Hermione smirked slightly as she saw the owl's eyes trailing her hand, waving around the treat. It hooted in a small voice, longingly looking at the little biscuit. Quickly, she threw it to the owl, as it bobbed its head up and caught the treat in its beak, as Hermione quickly dove for the letter. Hermione – quite rightly – smiled proudly at the owl as it finished off its tiny snack. She unfolded the piece of parchment and read the elegantly written and neat words.

'_Granger,_

_The prefects have requested a meeting later on this afternoon concerning the samples that have been sent in, and the newspaper. The Meeting Room at 1 o'clock. Be there._

_D.M._

_Head Boy.'_

Hermione let out a deep sigh, looking at the owl wearily.

No bloody wonder.

"I feel sorry for you," she said to the owl. "Your owner's a prick."

The owl lunged at her, snapping its beak just an inch away from her finger.

Yep, definitely his.

Hermione felt her shoulders suddenly slouch as if there was a heavy burden placed upon them, dreading to see him again as she headed slowly to her desk and grabbed a piece of parchment. She reached for her quill and dipped it in ink before hastily writing down a reply.

'_Malfoy,_

_Your owl sucks._

_As for the meeting, I'll be there. I expect the prefects have gotten quite an amount of samples._

_From,_

_Hermione Granger_

_Head Girl.'_

She set her quill back on the stand before folding up her parchment. She went over to the windowpane, handing it to the owl, which was currently preening its feathers. Bothered, it leaned its head forward and bit into the parchment, almost tearing it out of her hands, before it spread out its wings and started to flap its wings, flying out the window.

Hermione glared at the retreating owl and watched until it became an indistinct blur. She let out a frustrated sigh, skipping her daily peek out the window due to her spoiled morning as she reached out for the latch and closed it quickly. She turned the lock and drew the curtain, before running a hand through her hair with a perturbed look on her face.

"Bloody Malfoy," she muttered, before she went on to ready herself for the day.

oooo

In the Great Hall, excited chatter buzzed amongst her peers. The room was colorful and absent of the normal grays and blacks of their uniform for today was the blissful start of the weekend. There was the usual clatter of silverware and laughter, and greets of a good morning to her as she passed. She felt her mood slowly lighten as many waved to her, a big smile drawn on their faces. Though, she remembered that ever since announcing the newspaper and the okay for samples a few days ago, everyone was considerably nicer to her. It was called sucking up. Hermione realized this.

She took her usual seat next to Ginny, who had her weekend grin on, cutting her pancakes in neat, small pieces. Hermione wrinkled her noise at Ginny's plate. It was overflowing with syrup and her pancakes were practically bathed in it.

One word: Sugar-coma.

"Good morning, Hermione," she said cheerfully. "Have a good night? Oh, you'll never believe it, Hermione! I've got _loads_ of samples! There's got to be at least thirty in all! And that's only my share! Dean has quite a lot too!" She shook her head, ecstatic about the turnout. "Think about what all the Houses have in all!"

Hermione nodded, smiling, glimpsing away from her friend's sugar-intoxicated breakfast. She reached over for a blueberry muffin and bit into it. '_Who knew there would be a surprisingly large amount of people scrambling to get a spot on the paper?'_ she thought to herself. '_I suppose I underestimated Hogwarts._'

"Say, Ginny, you're going to the meeting this afternoon, right?" Hermione asked her as she swallowed.

Ginny nodded, placing a syrup-soaked piece of pancake in her mouth. She chewed, and then swallowed, raising one ginger eyebrow at Hermione. "Yeah, of course. Dean and the others had been the ones to owl Malfoy last night. They thought that it'd be better to get the samples sorted out during the weekend, and all of them even canceled their plans for the day. They're also pleased with the outcome, too, Hermione. I think you and Malfoy did a splendid job," she smiled.

"Thanks," said Hermione. "Now let's just hope the other things go as smoothly."

oooo

Hermione met up with the other prefects in the Meeting Room at exactly one o'clock and was relieved to see that Draco was on time as well. The intolerable Slytherin smirked enticingly at her (which she rightfully ignored) as she went up to the front and addressed the rather small crowd.

"Glad to see you're all here," she said. "Now, on to business. How many does Ravenclaw have?" she asked, looking over at the Ravenclaw prefects, Terry Boot and Lauren Everett.

"Thirty," Terry Boot said aloud, motioning to the stack of parchments beside them.

Hermione nodded, and looked over to the Slytherin prefects sitting aside them. "And Slytherin?" she asked.

"Twenty five," Alexandra Blythe said, a girl with dark hair and a hunter green sweatshirt, looking the part of a Slytherin.

"Hufflepuff?"

"Nearly forty," Ernie MacMillian said proudly, a big smile on his face. There were whispers and awes of surprise, but she stiffened as she heard someone loudly snort beside her. Hermione, wise girl that she was, only ignored the obnoxious deed. She made a mental note to reprimand him about it later on.

She tensely went back to the matter at hand and turned to Ginny and Dean, the Gryffindor prefects. "Gryffindor?" she inquired.

"Forty-two," Ginny said, beaming with excitement and pride. She heard some more whispers, and some negative noises coming from the Slytherins… particularly their Head Boy. Hermione quieted them down, shooting another scowl at Draco, who merely sent her a smug look in return, as if his ill manners were justified.

"A job well done," she smiled at all of them. "Now, if you haven't read through them already, please do so. Choose the ones you utterly think are the best from your pile, and hand it in to either Malfoy or me. We'll choose from your selection, and we'll notify the individuals that we think are fit by owl as of tomorrow night. That is all," she said, and the cacophony of conversation and chatter filled the room almost instantly, rustles of paper accompanying the noise from the unfolding of the parchments.

She sighed, her eyes sparkling at the sight of the bright success of the newspaper shown to her at the moment. If anything, more than gladness, she felt relief. _Loads_ of relief.

But, of course, who else but the Head Boy had to rain on her parade?

"Granger," he drawled, and she slightly jumped. She turned to him, noticing that he was no longer leaning by the wall as he usually did – which oddly began to jumpstart her nerves. He was only a foot away from her now, his steely gray eyes light and almost hidden by his silver-blond hair.

"Malfoy," she said to him coolly. She had decided that she wasn't going to play along with him anymore. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of getting her all riled up.

"I grant you, MacMillian wrote half of those _himself_."

She scoffed, not even the least bit surprised. From time to time, she wondered why he harbored so much scorn towards Hufflepuff House. But then she reminded herself that she might as well wonder why he hated _all_ of human kind. He was just the sort of prick that existed solely for one reason: to hate everything and everyone. Made her wonder just how exactly his childhood had been like. Frightening notion. "Malfoy, please. I don't know why you dislike the Hufflepuff House as much as you do, but you're acting childish. They're just a good a House as Slytherin is, or Gryffindor or even Ravenclaw."

Draco gave her ludicrous look, nearing her. He was only a step away from her now. "You're bloody mad. Hufflepuff is where they store all the daft prats in!"

Hermione sighed exasperatedly, trying to smooth out the nonexistent creases in her blouse. "I'm in no mood to bicker with you right now," she said to him, trying to look cool and undisturbed, although really very tired with his useless schemes to create discriminating trenches between the Houses. "Your monstrosity of an owl woke me up, very nearly pecked me to death, and now _this_? Must you try to spoil _everything_ for me?"

Bad question. She immediately regretted it. It was a _baaaad_ question.

"Granger, you're a Mudblood," he snorted, so close to her now that she could smell his expensive musk of leather and, bizarrely, even a hint of rain. Was it raining? "What's there to spoil? Besides your reputation, of course."

Hermione gave him a look of spite before silently brushing past him and making her way to the prefects.

Draco only smirked as he felt her walk past him, inhaling a faint scent of flowers that sent unknown ripples down his chest before suddenly fading. He turned and watched her in curiosity, leaning against the wooden stand she would always stand behind, playing the part of the take-charge Head Girl. His gray eyes trailed her as she walked to Ginny Weasley, watching as she took the seat beside her, still scowling her Gryffindor scowl – non-threatening but actually quite good. After all, he knew she had experience in the area. Scowling at him had to be one of her top pastimes. He actually thought she deserved an award.

One: he knew she could spit insults like a fork-tongued devil when she was furious enough. He had experienced it before, but it always made him wonder to how far she could really go. He knew that behind that Miss Perfect and Mother Teresa exterior was some sort of demon waiting to come out. Sure, it had made its appearances when he was involved, but it was only so rare. It just tickled him that he had seen a side of her that nearly nobody else had, and intrigued him knowing the possibility that there was something more.

It was no lie that he had always picked on her best friend, Hogwarts' bloody Golden boy, Harry Potter, for a variety of reasons, but one of them was because no one had the heart to. Everyone welcomed the famous Scar Head; everyone cheered him on and supported him. Only Draco had the ability to look past his Poor Abandoned Baby Left On Doorstep With Tragically Killed Parents past and see him for what he truly was, which was an attention-bathing swine. Honestly? The public loved the common Cinderella, which was what Potter was, for some perversely twisted reason. Everyone needed someone to feel sorry for. Potter was the dead road kill people strode by and clicked their tongues about, muttering about "The cruelty of some people nowadays" before getting on with their day. In some ways, it was infuriatingly natural.

But Harry Potter wasn't nearly as fun and fiery as his little Mudblood friend, Hermione Granger. The clever bookworm and Know-it-all was one-third of the Heroic Trio, which instantly made her Hogwarts' sweetheart, even if no one did really like her. She was known for her lack of a personal life and her irresistible urge to answer every question in class, not to forget her infamous wish to live in the library. She was incredibly dull, but she was sharp, quick-witted, and stern. Draco knew very well now that she could also get fantastically angry and he liked to think that he was just addicted to seeing her so ruffled and furious.

Also, the thing was, she didn't give a damn and acted exactly that way. In fact, if she wasn't so disgustingly noble and gallant, he was certain that she would've been opted as a Ravenclaw, or even a Slytherin. If she wasn't, well, you know, _her_.

oooo

Hermione was awfully disappointed at the end result of the meeting, but smiled proudly down at the parchments she held in her hands, anyway. She'd heard about that quote of doing what one could with what one had, and thus she tried to reassure herself with that. Unfortunately, she was not doing so well.

Ginny and the other prefects had handed her some samples that they had thought were the best, but there were only so few. Out of all the piles of parchments and trials, there were only about fifteen that they had thought were good. And, knowing her high standards for the criteria of the newspaper, she knew it wasn't going to be as good as she thought it was going to be.

Hermione sighed, sitting down at the end of the podium, wearily looking at what she held in her hand. She felt her heart slightly give way, closing her eyes, the dark silence echoing and masking the room.

The prefects had left about ten minutes ago, eager to get on with the day. Ginny had offered to stay behind with her, but Hermione had refused and told her to go on with her agenda for the day. She didn't want her to see how disappointed she was; she didn't want to bring her down too. Ginny had been so excited, and she still was – the last thing Hermione wanted to do was ruin it for her.

She took deep breaths, trying to calm her mind but still felt that same hole in her stomach. She had known not to get her hopes up. She sighed again, this time slowly opening her eyes.

They'd been here at least an hour and a half, looking through all of the samples and discussing what was to be needed for the paper. She didn't know why she already felt so tired. Maybe it was just her mind. It wouldn't be such a mad notion if her mind were mentally overworked.

She picked the first parchment and set the others down beside her. She unfolded it, but suddenly froze, feeling goose bumps rise on her skin. She slowly turned her head, and found herself looking at a silent Draco Malfoy. She cynically guessed that he had been going to try to scare her again with some Death Eater nonsense. It really was a mystery to her at how she could forget about him so easily. She thought that maybe it was because of her exhaustion. Being weary made it so easy to become oblivious to everything else, so she discovered. Even a wanky, vermin-like boy who had some very stalker-like characteristics.

She sighed, turning back to the sample, but not opening it just yet. "Malfoy, that's kind of disturbing, don't you think?" she said flatly, not in the mood to snap at him and tell him to go away.

Draco gave her a look, the corners of his mouth slightly stretching, running a hand through his hair. "You forgot I was here again. Second time. Impressive, Granger, very impressive," he drawled. "I suppose my Death Eater scare really didn't do much, then. What a shame. I really must think of something better to frighten you out of your wits to make you learn your lesson."

"You can leave," she said to him, without looking up. "The room's empty."

Draco chuckled, pushing off the wall and walking towards her. He sat down beside her, Hermione's nerves slightly awakening by his closeness. His smirk was still plastered on his face as his eyes twinkled dimly. He looked amused, and Hermione rolled her eyes, at the same time trying to forget the nervous scuttling inside her veins.

"No, I think I'd rather stick around. I'd like to see _your_ handful of parchments that they gave you."

She raised a perfectly arched brow at him, looking at his hands. They were empty. "What happened to yours?" she asked curiously. "I saw them give some to you."

Draco shrugged in his usual self-righteous way, a bored expression on his handsome face. "Yes, they gave some to me, Granger. Oh, you're so clever," he remarked sarcastically. "Unfortunately, they were all rubbish."

Hermione gasped. "_All_ of them? You're kidding."

"I _don't_ kid," he informed her. "And yes, all of them."

Hermione gaped at him.

Draco grimaced. "Granger, close your mouth. You'll attract flies."

She then glared at him, sending him a glower, but otherwise paid no further heed to his comment. "I don't believe you," she sternly said to him. "Where's your share? I'd like to see them."

Draco laughed. "They're over there," he said, pointing to a wastebasket. "Dig in and feel free. But I wouldn't waste my time."

Hermione looked at him suspiciously, narrowing her eyes, before she sighed sadly, slouching her shoulders. She wasn't in the mood to play this Believe Me-Believe Me Sodding Not game with him.

"Were they really _that_ terrible?" she asked wearily, frowning. She felt as if she had just a new level of lame.

Draco shrugged. "I had a criteria and standard. Maybe the bars were set too high," he told her. "Then again, I wouldn't be surprised," he muttered as an afterthought. "Hogwarts students aren't exactly the most literate lot."

Yeah, that was kind of funny.

Draco watched her closely, everything so quiet that he felt the muffled thudding inside his chest. He suddenly felt as if he was underwater. He felt light – pressure stacking inside his lungs, as if was everything trying to lift him up to the surface. Something remarkably close to the force of gravity. But he reckoned it was probably just from something he had eaten.

But, watching her closely, it was only then when he had noticed how truly _tired_ she was. Her face was sallow, almost to the Severus Snape degree (and that was _bad_), and her brown eyes were dark and dull like set stones. The familiar spark in the so-called "warm chestnut eyes" of hers was nonexistent, and there didn't even seem to be a trace of them left. He furrowed his brows, wanting to tear his eyes away from her wretched appearance and tell himself, redundantly, that he didn't care whether she was exhausted or not, or whether she looked it. She'd known what she was getting into.

But, _man_. Get some sleep or _something_.

She looked _horrible_.

Hermione unfolded the parchment and read it in an unhurried pace, before sighing again. Draco's eyes flickered from her face to the parchment. She began to fold it back up, but then he spoke.

"Give it to me," he said to her, holding out his hand. Hermione halted and hesitantly placed the half-folded parchment in his hand. He took it, opened it and read it silently.

Hermione went on to the next sample.

She was relieved as she read it, grateful that she had at least found one. She sucked in a breath as she finished it off. "This is it," she whispered, as her eyes traveled back up to the edge of the parchment. It read Lisa Turpin, a Ravenclaw. "Thank Merlin for Ravenclaws."

Draco looked over at her curiously after tossing the article in the wastebasket in the middle of the room, and making it in. "Found one?" he asked her.

She nodded, a small smile on her face as she handed it to him.

Hermione went on to the other samples, crossing her fingers and nervously biting her bottom lip.

By the end of reading all the samples, she was relieved, for it hadn't been as bad as she had hoped it wouldn't be. She had picked out Lisa Turpin, Colin Creevey as the photographer – having sent in some fantastic samples of his photographs – Dean Thomas, Ginny Weasley, Parvati Patil, and Lavender Brown. She was no doubt very proud of Ginny and Dean for they had applied and indeed had some skill (knowing their "Your" from their "You're,") but she was surprised to see that Parvati and Lavender, the Hogwarts gossipers, had sent in samples. She was even more surprised that they were actually good.

Draco had one eyebrow raised, reading the last sample she had handed him. He finished it and folded it back up, setting it beside him.

"Not bad for a Weasley," he drawled, trying not to gag as he said it.

Hermione smiled. That had _almost_ been a compliment—that should count for something, right? "I can't believe that out of _all_ the stacks and piles of letters and articles, only _six_ made it," she said. "I knew all those heaps were just too good to be true."

"I told you MacMillian wrote most for Hufflepuff," he said haughtily.

Despite herself, Hermione laughed. She even considered agreeing. The handwriting on some _had_ been somewhat similar. "Right, Malfoy."

"Now we've got to get on the case of the editor."

Hermione sighed. "Don't even get me started. I mean, I know that's going to be the hardest part. Too much responsibility and whatnot. But, then again, newspapers are _hopeless_ without an editor."

He looked at her. "Well, if it's so important," he challenged her, "why don't _you_ do it? You do your assignments weeks before they're due, so you're bound to have some free time."

"But—" she started, but Draco cut her off.

"Granger, you can live _without_ the library," he snorted. "You might as well. You're so determined to make this whole lot succeed, you're perfect for the job."

This was the part where Hermione Granger's ego kicked in, despite the fact that her conscience was already telling her to say No. Because she could handle it, right? She could handle anything. She was the best student in this castle. Then again, a part of her felt like she was selling a part of her soul to the devil.

"Right. I'll think about it." Then she paused, thinking. "Wait," she said, turning towards him. "What'll _you_ get out of it?" Her eyes narrowed. "You're planning to dump the workload all to me, aren't you? Well! That's just despicable! Why don't you just—"

Draco then hit her on the side of her head, enough to make a loud slapping noise but not enough to send her into a mild concussion. "Would you shut up? I'm going to be doing as much work as you, idiot. Honestly, the more you blabber on about those things the more you seem to get dumber."

Hermione gaped at him, rubbing her head and glaring at him. "Was it necessary to hit?" she snapped, feeling a little – microscopic, actually – hurt by his words. She was so into denying it altogether, though, that she couldn't even think of why that was.

"Yes. A gag would have been great, too, but I rather like my shoe without your slobber and teeth marks on them," he muttered.

oooo

Hermione Granger was currently walking down the corridor amongst the mob of chatty Hogwarts students, their lively conversations and smiles getting quite more nauseating for her than she'd ever like to admit. Ginny was beside her, filling her in at where her relationship with Seamus was right at the moment with such enthusiasm (the sort of enthusiasm that Hermione rather envied), when she saw a flash of blond hair and felt the hairs on the back of her neck suddenly rise. She involuntarily shivered. Merlin, what _was_ that?

She grabbed Ginny's arm, suddenly stopping in place. Ginny turned to her, curious. Hermione swallowed, trying to figure out the reason why her mouth's percentage of contained moisture had abruptly gone down to rival those of the Sahara. "Ginny, you just go on ahead, all right?" she told her. "I've got some errands I've got to run."

Ginny nodded as Hermione let go of her arm. "I'll see you later, then?" she asked her. Hermione nodded. She gave her a small wave before she walked on down the corridor, disappearing inside the crowd not a second later.

Hermione stood in the sea of adolescent wizards and witches, searching for that same silver-golden head of hair. She felt people brush against her and she heard their noisy laughter ringing in her ears as she patiently tried to make her way out of the crowd.

Finally, when everyone had emptied and the corridor and went on to their destinations, her eyes flickered across the hallway and felt a certain nervousness when she saw him. She remembered that she never liked being anywhere alone with him because… well, he was an evil bastard, there was that. But lately there'd been something off-putting about him that made her uneasy.

There, leaning on the wall just a few yards from her, was a smirking Draco Malfoy, his arms folded and his shoulders high with superiority. He was wearing his weekend clothes, just like the day before, but this time his long-sleeved button-up shirt was a deeper and darker color that made his eyes appear much more piercing than it normally was, in contrast to the absent of color on his skin. She also noticed how pleasantly tall he was, and his position was hinting off messages of subtle seduction for some strange reason.

She shook her head.

God, she was mental.

"Granger," he said to her, and she walked towards him.

"What is it, Malfoy?"

"Thought about the vacancy for the editor's chair?"

She sighed, folding her arms and shifting her position, laying all of her weight on one foot. "I have."

He raised a blond brow at her, a flitter of tease hanging on his lips. "And what about it? Are you _really_ going to kiss those dreadful daily trips to the library good-bye?"

She pressed her lips together. "Would you quit it? Be serious, for goodness sake's, Malfoy."

"Right," he said, though there was that look on his face again. It was one she'd been seeing rather often. It was really vague, for one thing, and the second – she didn't know what the _hell_ it meant. Like he didn't know what to do with her, dropkick her or straight up sucker punch. Or, you know, whatever. "I need to know who's been accepted. I'll be the one to mail the owls."

Hermione looked up at him questionably at what he had said he would do, but then shook her head. '_So then he is taking this seriously,_' she bitterly thought. _'I never thought I'd see the day._' Above anything else, she was surprised, but kept it concealed inside her chest. She had a feeling he would take it back and dump all the work back on her if she reminded him of his "usual" attitude towards these things.

"Lisa Turpin," she said to him after a few moments of hesitation, closing her eyes and counting with her fingers, trying to remember. "Ravenclaw. Colin Creevey, Gryffindor. Ginny Weasley, Parvati Patil, Lavender Brown, and Dean Thomas, also Gryffindor." Draco snorted, and Hermione ignored him, already predicting the crudeness of his comment he would give her if she allowed him to get a word in.

She had a flickering feeling that she had forgotten someone.

"What are you doing?" he asked her, getting her hint that she wasn't finished giving him the names just yet. "You said yourself that there were only six."

Hermione shook her head in disagreement. "I got another one by owl after the meeting." Just then, she opened her eyes and looked straight at him, suddenly remembering. "Hannah Abbott, Hufflepuff."

"What?" Draco asked her, surprised.

"Hannah Abbott, Hufflepuff," she said to him slowly, as if he was half-witted.

A flare of irritation glimmered in his eyes, as he scowled at her, clearly not appreciating at what she had insinuated from her action. "I know what you said, Granger," he snapped. "I'm not a dimwit." Hermione begged to differ. "I just don't understand why we must have this Anna girl," he said to her.

"_Hannah_," she corrected him. "And why _can't_ we have her? She's a great writer."

"She's a Hufflepuff," he stated, distaste and dislike flicking from his tongue. "It's bad luck to have a Hufflepuff. Just look at the Wizard's Chess team, or-or the _Quidditch_ team."

Hermione gaped at him, her impatience finally showing its true form. "_Honestly_, Draco," she crossly said to him, her eyes narrowed into angry slits.

Draco froze, feeling weird tingles creeping up his body from hearing his name as he stared at her, silent. But instead of stopping mid-sentence and going about the action of sticking her foot inside her mouth, she only went on with her aggravated lecture, totally oblivious to the fact that she had just called him by his first name.

"…Just because you have certain, very childish problems with the Hufflepuff House does _not_ mean that we all have to abide by your chauvinistic views. You _know_ that we can't _not_ recruit her because you have certain issues, which, I still do _no_t understand why you have them, especially with the Hufflepuff House. They are a very fine House and the fact that you dislike them so much is _completely_ ridiculous and absurd," she huffed. "I suggest you get over whatever you hold against them, which I have no doubt whatsoever is going to be very stupid, and act fairly. You're _Head Boy_, and you are _not_ and _never_ to judge anyone by their House. . . ."

Draco stared at her, amazed. She just went on, like some blindfolded, unstoppable choo-choo train. She was totally clueless that she had just called him "Draco." Of course, it shouldn't be a big deal, but for some very odd reason, it was. It just was. Because _nobody_ called him Draco, only his mother and father, and maybe Crabbe and Goyle, but even then he elbowed them in the ribs and told them to call him Malfoy. It was a personal sort of thing. Only people who actually knew him – and even sort of did not, at the same time – called him that. And so he was stunned. Because she called him by his first name, and it was totally offending, because she didn't _know_ him.

"Granger," he firmly said to her. "_Shut. Up._" Hermione blinked, but did as he said, looking at him annoyingly but with question in her eyes. "I couldn't care any bloody less about your damn morals or all that rubbish you just said to me, all right?" he told her.

Hermione's eyes narrowed at him. "Why you—"

"Hermione?"

Hermione's words instantly ceased, thinning out into the tense air, confusion and surprise flashing across her face for a quick second before she turned her head quickly to the direction of the voice, her brown hair whipping across her face. Draco, also having heard the call, looked to the direction of the voice. His silver eyes dimmed at the figure coming towards them, his mouth twisting into a callous scowl.

"Harry?" she said, rather disbelievingly.

Harry gave her a small smile, before his eyes flickered over to Draco, and his eyes had also darkened with suspicion. He walked towards them, and Draco felt something surge through him as he suddenly shifted from his leaning position from the wall. He straightened himself up, glaring at him.

He stopped in front of them, smiling at Hermione.

"Well, well, well. To what do we owe this rather pleasant visit to, Potter?" he drawled, though he'd wanted to spit this in his face, his eyes burning with disdain. Harry's eyes flickered to him, revealing a dark look, but looked back at Hermione without a word to the Slytherin.

Harry ignored him as he addressed Hermione sweetly. Draco's glower deepened. "Could I speak to you?" Harry asked her, and she closed her mouth, speechless. She nodded, swallowing hard. She, in very few words, was shocked at the sudden appearance of her friend.

"Sure," she managed to say.

Draco saw something move from the corner of his eye, and he looked down. He glimpsed the act of protectiveness Potter had enacted on her, catching him as his hand grasped her arm. His eyes flashed, looking at the raven-haired boy.

"_Sorry_, Potter," he snarled.

He just didn't understand why people couldn't comprehend that no one interrupts Draco Malfoy. _No one_.

Harry froze, and Hermione looked at Draco questionably.

"If you didn't _notice_, we were in the middle of a conversation. Of course, your dim-witted brain sends its messages too bloody slow, so I'll give you a minute or so to let it get to you."

Harry turned his gaze to him, glaring. "Sod off, Malfoy," he snapped.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," he said, in a biting tone. "See, Granger and I have some business and we'd like to get it finished."

Harry opened his mouth but closed it again, looking over at Hermione, obviously asking her with his expression if what he said was true. Hermione was looking at Draco with a stunned and curious expression on her face. Taking a few seconds to compose herself, she then turned to Harry, also inquisitive at what Draco still had to speak with her about. She felt a little tense, caught in the middle of a spitback, and then Harry coming along. Not very good to be in the same room as Malfoy and Harry.

"He's right," she told him, though she gave Draco a skeptical look from the corner of her eye. "But it won't take long. It's just Heads business. You can just wait over there," she said, pointing to the end of the corridor. Harry sighed, before nodding. He ran a hand through his hair before not-so-discretely shooting Draco a look of warning and walking towards the end of the hallway.

Hermione turned back to Draco with a bothered look, her arms still crossed in a manner that told him she was indeed very annoyed with him right now. "What else do you need to inform me of?" she asked, her voice sharp and sort of strangled.

"I'll be sending the notifications by owl tonight," he said to her coldly, still in a bad mood due to the famous Hero's appearance.

She nodded stiffly. "That's fine with me," she said, a frosty edge to her words. "Is that all?"

Draco was silent, as he just looked at her, getting even angrier at her attitude. She had plunged into her Much Holier Than Thou mind-set the moment Potter had stepped into the place, and he didn't appreciate it. At all.

She sucked in a sharp and quick breath, before she turned on her heel, about to leave. But she froze when she heard him call out to her.

"There _is_ another thing, Granger," he said frigidly. "You called me _'Draco_._'_ I just thought you should know. I think we should just stick to surnames, don't you? People might think we're getting chummy," he spat. "And that's the last thing I want."

Hermione felt a knot suddenly appear in her throat as she halted. She swallowed hard, trying to extinguish the sudden aridity in her mouth and the restricting binds in her stomach. She turned around, but he had already turned away and was now walking to the other end of the corridor, taking the long way to their rooms.

Hermione stared at his withdrawing back in a perturbed manner, before she heard Harry call for her attention. She sighed, deeply troubled by what he had said, before turning slowly and walking down to where he was waiting.

And though calling him by something other than his surname or "Prick" or "Bastard" or "Arrogant arse" or any of the other names they had stamped to the face of their Slytherin acquaintance was not a big deal… it was. Sort of like stepping into private property. It was like Malfoy calling her _Hermione_. Even thinking about it gave her shivers. Somehow, Draco Malfoy by his first name made her sort of stumble backwards, like – whoa. When had they started getting _chummy_ enough for her to say that to him? She didn't even _know_ him.

Of course he would have thrown it back to her face as something horrible. _No, we aren't getting chummy_, she wanted to say to him. _The world would have to end then. _Who did he think he was? "And that's the last thing I want"? Well, like that's such a sodding surprise! As if he was the only one who thought getting cozy with one's enemy was a nightmare!

Hermione stopped in front of Harry. She looked up at him and tightly folded her arms against her chest. She didn't even dare to show any sign of friendliness towards him. She was not in a very good mood. Though, she did recognize that it was quite unfair (Harry did no wrong to her – at least, not really) and tried her hardest to push the thoughts of Draco out of her mind and focus on the matter at hand.

"Hello Harry," she greeted him, though quite frigidly, due to Draco sodding Malfoy's very dramatic last words.

Harry nodded. "Are you all right? What did Malfoy say to you?" he asked, his protectiveness showing clearly in his voice, which made Hermione suddenly nervous.

"Don't mind him, Harry. It was just Heads business," she said. "Now…" she said reluctantly, remembering her antics of proving her worth and independence to superior males. Was Harry here because of what she thought he was? To ask her to back out? "What was it you wanted to talk about?"

Harry gave her a boyish and lopsided grin. "How have you been holding up?"

"Well," she said to him. The words "great" or "fantastic" would have been an exaggeration. "It's been… eventful, due to the newspaper."

"Right!" said Harry, his face lighting up with what seemed like remembrance. "Anyway, how has that been? Ginny's been raving on about it during Quidditch practice, and it sounds excellent."

"It's… work," said Hermione, not feeling up to elaborating on the whole newspaper wreck. If she told him how awful she was coping with the lack of capable staff members, how could she show him that she was perfectly fine by herself? And that she was, in no way, suffering from the consequences of said codependency?

"Well, that's fantastic," he grinned at her, though it really wasn't fantastic at all.

Hermione nodded tensely, looking down at her feet. It was definitely awkward between them now, and she knew very well that he knew it too. The uneasy silence was casting knots in her stomach that she didn't favor at all.

Hermione knew very well that she and Harry understood each other. It was a perk that came with being best of friends and being together for years – and the fact that they had both gotten indeed very close when he stayed over with her in her parent's summer house. But she wondered that if she told him about her feminist aunt, and about proving that she was more than the sum of her parts, and of feared (though redundant) codependency, if he would understand. He was Harry, of course he would understand. But he was also a boy, which sort of twisted things around.

So she was quite uncertain whether he actually would.

But before she could muster enough nerve to launch into a great, full-on spiel about everything she had just thought of, hopefully to coax him into understanding her predicament, he had opened his mouth and finally spoke.

Yes. Harry had always had the greatest timing.

"I talked to Ron, the other day," he said to her quietly, yet a bit rushed. "He wouldn't admit it, but I know he misses you. He isn't angry anymore, Hermione."

Hermione, startled, simply looked at him. Then she strengthened her gaze. "Harry," she firmly said. "I can't—"

"You aren't losing, Hermione," he said, trying to convince her. "You're not going to be the loser this time. He's not going to _win_. No one is. But you can't honestly like avoiding him, can you? Hermione, we've all been best friends for _ages_."

"I know, Harry," she said, in an impulsively harsh way. She swallowed, trying to compose herself, giving him an apologetic look. "I know."

"Don't you miss him? Us?"

"Harry, that's not the point," she said. "It's about codependency, and me proving my worth to my fellow peers – _without_ you two!" she exclaimed. "They call you my 'protectors'! I don't _need_ protectors! I can do just fine on my own, thanks!" she fumed.

"Do they really?" Harry said, taken aback, yet amused. "Your protectors?"

She sighed, giving him a stern look. "It doesn't matter. I would just like to serve as an example to girls everywhere that one needn't have to have a member of the male species to be strong and confident."

"You got all of that from your _spat_?" he asked incredulously. "I'm sorry, are we talking about the _same_ spat? In the Great Hall?"

"Harry, don't joke."

He shook his head. "It's just – Hermione, you know Ron. He's stubborn and he's got blinding pride."

"Just like Malfoy," she snorted, crossing her arms.

Harry's eyes darkened. "Must we _really_ bring him into this?" he asked her, obviously not very fond of him being the topic of conversation.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Right. Sorry."

"Hermione, please. All feminist antics aside, just please find a way to patch things up between you two. Ron's never going to get it. You know that. He's… not a thinker. Most of the time, anyway."

"You're really asking me to apologize to him?" she asked Harry, annoyance in her tone. Harry gave her a look, and she sighed. "All right then. For you, just because Ron can't keep you satisfied, as good as a friend he is. I bet he misses having someone to help him with his assignments and copy from, doesn't he?"

Harry stared at her, surprised. "Hermione, it isn't like that. You know it isn't. Ron's a great friend; he's my best mate…. But it isn't the same without you."

She looked up at him for a quick second, feeling strange as he had said that to her. Hadn't that what she'd been waiting for? From Harry? But she then realized that it was three years too late.

"Touching," she said briskly, not really touched at all.

Harry gaped at her, stunned at how she could be suddenly be so sarcastic in a conversation like this. "Bloody hell, Hermione," he said, taken aback. "You sound like… like _Malfoy_."

Hermione's eyes widened, before glaring at Harry. "Take that back, Harry," she said sternly. "I just had a talk with him right before I came to you, and you expect me to be in a good mood? Bugger it, he's Draco Malfoy. I can't get out a conversation with him without wanting to wipe that smirk off of his face," she said, frustration glimmering in her eyes.

Much to Hermione's chagrin, he laughed.

Hermione rolled her eyes, though she couldn't help but smile a bit. "You're a git, do you know that?" she said to him, as they began to walk down the halls together.

Harry shrugged. "That's one I haven't heard before. You know, I think I've gotten used to being called 'dreamy.' I don't think the word 'git' fits in there, do you?" He then turned to her, question and curiosity in his eyes, amusement flittering across his smile. "By the way, I overheard, and… did you _really_ call him 'Draco'? To his _face_? I mean—"

He gave out a surprised yelp of pain as Hermione's fist collided with his shoulder.

"Point taken," he lowly muttered as she stormed away, gingerly rubbing his arm.


	11. The Secret Talent of Hermione Granger

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: Typing up disclaimers is a hard job. Especially when I've already done it 12 times. So, here, cutting to the chase: J.K. Rowling owns HP, I don't. Yay! (Throws confetti.)

Oooo

**Edited 8.29.2005 – combined chaps. 17 and 18.**

I would like to thank all of the people (including you) who have been faithfully following along with this story. After editing these chapters a total of five times, I know how long it is. I know it's hard to keep going. I'm sorry for the stalling chapters, but I just wanted to let you all know that I love you. And that reviewing for this story would make me love you even more. : )

Ooooo

**The Secret Talent of Hermione Granger**

The next day, Hermione thought an awful lot about the apologizing-to-Ron matter. She couldn't deny that she didn't like it, or that she wasn't looking forward to it at all. Though her apologies were always sincere, she had a feeling this apology wouldn't be anywhere near it. After all, Ron was a bumptious prick who had a gigantic sack of stupid pride, not to mention a daft brain that was no good for anything at all, and a stomach and appetite that would rival Crabbe and Goyle's… _combined_.

She was not very fond of the idea of being the one to apologize… again. She even slightly regretted telling Harry that she would do it for him. She was doing so well, after all, being so independent (canceling out any ounce of possibly codependency), living in a Ronald Weasley-free world, and now she had to make it rain on her own parade just because Harry could not take it that his best friends were in a spat.

It wasn't even all that awful, anyhow. Harry was a strong boy, wasn't he? Well, if he faced Voldemort more than once, he should be strong enough to handle his two best friends in a row for a bit, right?

Hermione sighed, digging her face in her pillow. She shut her eyes tightly, letting out a deep breath and inhaling again, trying to coax her mind into a state of peace for the tenth time today. She was trying so hard to think of other things that it was utterly pathetic.

There was also that… _thing_, with Malfoy the other day, to add to the load weighing on her already tired and weary mind. She still couldn't believe that she'd called him "Draco" to his face. It couldn't have possibly slipped. It – the idea of it, even the thought of her calling him anything but his surname in front of him – was just physically impossible. It was just ridiculously unfeasible for such a thing to have come out of her mouth. Because, need it even be spoken aloud, they weren't getting chummy, no, not at all. Chumminess betwixt her and _Malfoy_ was completely out of the question! Why, he was such a loathsome _cockroach_! Who else would have held her verbal clumsiness against her so maliciously? She was so _humiliated_!

It _was_ a nice name… but that wasn't the issue right at the moment.

Of course, "Draco", the Latin word for Dragon, was an oddly remarkable and interesting name to give a child. Strangely enough, it suited him down to his cool but temperamental mood swings. It really was a fine name. Not ordinary at all, but interesting and intriguing. Unlike the name Ron, or Harry….

Hermione's eyes flew open, suddenly catching and halting her train of thought as she cursed under her breath for the fifth time today. Her mind had wandered and got caught in a current; a wicked – very wicked – current and it infuriated her. Now she could not even control her own thoughts.

"Damn!" she whispered harshly as she turned to her side, the side of her face lying against her fluffy pillow. She shifted on the bed, her mind still buzzing with thoughts that often caused a horrible traffic jam that she completely despised.

'_About time you caught yourself. It's just such a shame that you're still in Denial Wonderland._'

Hermione scowled, disturbed by her own traitorous conscience. "Malfoy can go _straight_ to bloody hell, and _so_ can Ron," she said aloud, her voice frosty and full of sharp irritation.

She looked over at her clock, and let out another sigh, closing her eyes.

"Harry's waiting for me in the common room," she said to herself, feeling tired. "Blast it. I've got to get up and apologize to the wanker. This is _total_ bollocks." She groaned in protest and objection as she got up, stepping off of her bed. She was still in her uniform clothes, reason because she had decided to sulk in despair and contemplate the injustice of the world the moment she got in her room.

Classes had already ended, and she had decided to skip dinner because just being in the Great Hall brought painful knots to her stomach. The Hall had been buzzing with excitement due to the owls that Malfoy had sent to the ones that had been accepted to the staff. She had also seen some frowns and scowls sent her way, obviously sore at her for not naming them one of the accepted lot, which made matters worse for her that day. She didn't think she could eat without the distressing matters settled in her mind. And for a third strike for worse, the professors had decided not to assign any homework for the day, which left her without any distraction and therefore causing her great displeasure and agony.

As for their classes, they were dreadful, besides the no homework issue. The lectures had been dull and absolutely unexciting, and her eyes always somehow found themselves wandering across the room to a rather distracting head of bright hair. Of course, her pride and logic would always catch up to her and mentally give her a good slap to make sure she herself was still occupying her body and not some evil supernatural spirit, or perhaps Voldemort on an evil spying mission, but it never worked for long.

During breakfast and lunch (the meals she did attend and could stomach) she would constantly see Harry looking at her with an expectant look on his face, and it always made the loops in her stomach pull tighter, not to mention make her lose her appetite, which undoubtedly caused her to be horribly hungry later on.

It seemed that every bloke in her life was giving her all sorts of issues and problems that made her one step closer to becoming clinically and literally insane. It really was no wonder why she was such a pariah in romantic relationships. _Boys_! She literally couldn't _stand them_ sometimes!

Hermione straightened herself up, smoothing down the creases on her shirt and skirt, also fixing her tie, making an attempt to clearly stall. She took a quick look in the mirror to make sure that she looked presentable although she really didn't give a rat's arse if she looked like she hadn't bothered to look good for them. She didn't care about Ron.

Ron could've jumped off a cliff and she wouldn't be down on her knees, weeping. All right, maybe she would have some other time, but right now all he was, was a bloody nuisance and she hated him. Sure, he would never really jump off a cliff, and if he did, Harry wouldn't have let him, which made the situation even harder to imagine, but due to the current row both she and Ron were active and main participants in at the moment, she almost wished he really would jump off a cliff right about now.

She walked out her room, making her way down the hall. It was still quite early in the evening and she saw quite a lot of students also walking down the corridors, making their way to or from someplace. She tried to calm herself down as she heard her footsteps construct a rhythm on the smooth, dark marble floors. The torches were lit and the flames flickered and danced with the shadows painted on the walls, scurrying along with it.

As she neared the Gryffindor dormitories, she began to feel nervous and felt the levels of irritation overtake her conscience. She took deep breaths, trying to ease her mind and let all the anger and frustration fade away, but it didn't seem to be working the slightest bit. She was fighting against it now, and the determination to make Ron look like an utter fool was growing inside her tremendously.

It was evil, yes. It was not friendly in any way at all, she knew. She didn't even know if it was reasonable. But she was distressed and angry, and she needed to let it all out somehow. This time, she didn't want to be reasonable. She didn't want to be calm and understanding. She was going to make Ron apologize, and she didn't give a damn about Harry's plea anymore. She wasn't going to be some idiotic _footstool_ any longer, if she had anything to say about it.

She took a quivering sigh, stepping towards the Fat Lady's portrait. The Fat Lady acknowledged her, trying to make conversation, but Hermione, anxious and determined and in a mood for battle and drawn daggers, cut her off rudely and just announced the password. The Fat Lady glared at her and made a remark, but Hermione dismissed it easily as the portrait door opened and she stepped inside.

Inside, as she had expected, held the two people she somewhat utterly despised for the moment. They were alone, and she knew that Harry had told everyone to be anywhere but the common room. She also knew that Harry had most probably told them _another_ reason – not the real reason – for Hermione knew that if he had, they would have all hidden behind the furniture to witness the special "apologizing arrangement." As if it were some planned battle. But, hell, maybe it was.

Hermione crossed her arms as she neared them, looking over at Harry, who had a small smile on his face, and Ron, who also looked determined and looked as if he had just eaten a very bad lemon. Hermione scowled, but she tried to erase it from her features, positive that looking angry as she really was wouldn't make anything better or different.

"Harry?" she said, her eyes flickering between the two of them. Harry nodded, nudging Ron beside him.

Ron turned to Harry, glaring. "_What?_ What is it?" he asked Harry irritably.

Harry glanced at Hermione curiously, before answering. "_Hermione's_ here. Don't you—?"

"I think what he means to say is," Hermione interrupted Harry, looking straight at Ron. "Don't you have something to say to me?" Her voice was calm and quiet, but stern and cold.

Ron's eyes flashed at her, his blue eyes narrowing into tiny slits. "No, I _don't_ think so," he said to her, glowering.

Hermione glared at him, angry at his arrogant and proud tone that she hated more than Malfoy's. Her clenched fists tightened, her nails digging into the palm of her hand. "Well, think _harder_," she said through gritted teeth. "It should be easy, since your brain is as _empty_ as Snape's tank of kindness."

"Oh? What about your _lack_ of human emotion, then? What about _your_ kindness? You're a cold-hearted, soul-less, vulgar and bad-mannered—"

"That's _total_ bollocks!" she exclaimed.

"_Is_ it?" Ron retaliated. "_You_ should know, right? Since you're so clever and you're the _smartest_ bloody person in the _whole_ bloody world!" he spat at her. "You made me look like a _fool_ in the Great Hall! _Everyone_ was watching!"

"Oh, is that new? You've _always_ looked like a fool to me, Ron," she spat at him. Ron's face suddenly began to redden at a quick pace. "It's _not_ much different from how you act, day-to-day. I don't have a clue as to how you could be angry about that."

"Why you pompous, stupid spaz, I ought to—"

"Ron," Harry cut in warningly. He looked at the two of them with panic on his face, but he covered it with a look of seriousness that was to supposedly give them a clue on how this whole meeting was supposed to go. "Hermione," he said, looking at her. "I didn't ask you two in here to shout insults at each other. We were supposed to set things straight – apologize. You two can't possibly be _fighting_ again, can you? Don't you likeeach other one bit? Don't you _miss_ each other?"

"_No_!" Hermione and Ron both said, in unison.

Harry gaped at them, before tugging on Ron's arm forcefully. "Ron! Don't _do_ this!"

"_Me_? What about _her_?" he shouted shrilly, pointing a finger at her. Hermione rolled her eyes, putting her hands on her hips.

"Ron! Just stop it! Aren't you _willing_ to be friends again?"

Ron jerked his arm away from Harry, glaring at him with a scowl etched on his face. "Bugger off, Harry," he snapped at him. Harry glowered at him, but Ron turned back to Hermione, who was looking at him like he was the most despicable and horrid creature on earth. Like he was Snape. Except worse.

"Why did you come here?" he asked her icily.

"I was _going_ to _apologize_," she hissed. But as she tried to continue, Ron immediately cut her off, a haughty grin on his face.

"_Ha!" _he said. "I _knew_ it! You can't _stand_ that we're not with you anymore, can you? I _knew_ you were going to bow out first!"

Hermione gaped at him, infuriated. "That's bloody _shit_, coming from _you_, Ronald Weasley!" she exploded at him. "I was going to, _only_ because Harry asked me to, but now I'm _not_ going to! I'll _never _apologize to you, you despicable, half-witted _wanker_!"

Ron scoffed, his blue eyes dark and dangerous.

"Hermione—" Harry tried to intervene, but Hermione gave him a glare and he promptly shut up.

Harry sighed, giving up. It was all up to God now.

"Harry, this is how we sort things out," she said to him coldly. "We'd like it if you would kindly stay out of our business."

"_Business?"_ he asked her incredulously. "You're shitting me! This isn't only _your_ business! Can you not _tell_? This is my business too! It's affecting me, though I'd like it _not_ to be, but it _is_ and that's the reason why I asked you to come down and apologize to Ron in the bloody first place!"

"Hermione, you're one to bloody _talk_!" Ron shouted at her, obviously ignoring Harry.

"Oh, _really_?" she said, also ignoring Harry, who looked helplessly between his two friends. "_Face_ it, Ron. You can't apologize for anything at all! All our arguments before, _I_ was the one to apologize _only_ because our friendship wasn't worth ending because of our stupid rows. If you'd just apologize once, I'd gladly accept, and it'll all be over! But you choose to play pin the tail on the damned running bloody horse and make it overly difficult! Bloody _hell_! I can only take so much! I'm not as weak as you think, and I'm _not_ bowing out!"

A look flashed across Ron's red angry face, but it was gone as quickly as it came. She raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for a reaction.

"I _can_ so apologize!" he finally shouted at her.

"_No,_ you can't!" Hermione shouted back at him.

"Can so!"

"Can not!"

"Can _so_!"

"Well, _prove_ it then!" Hermione said to him haughtily, smirking. She knew where this was going.

Ron took a deep breath, his face becoming redder and redder with each second that earth let pass. Harry was baffled, just watching the interaction, and he had to admit, there was really nothing that could stop the two. But he knew what Hermione was doing, and all he could do was smile secretively. She really _was_ clever.

"I'm _sorry_!" he shouted. "There! I did it! _Ha_!"

Hermione smiled victoriously, looking over at Harry, who was now chuckling.

"I accept," Hermione told Ron.

Instantly, Ron's proud smirk fell off of his face as he stared at her, confused. He looked over at Harry, who was still laughing. "What's happening?" Ron asked hoarsely, looking at both Harry and Hermione. "What's going on?"

"_You_ apologized," Hermione proudly said. "For once. And _I_ accepted."

Ron had a suspicious look in his eyes at first, but then he too broke into a fit of chuckles. "_Clever_, Hermione, clever," he said to her after he had straightened up and laughed all he could.

Hermione nodded, smiling. "So, friends?" she asked him, holding her hand out. Ron gave her a faux-scowl, before grinning amusedly at her, taking her hand.

"Friends," he said. "_Only_ because you outsmarted me into apologizing."

"Well, you really should stop acting like such a prick."

"Likewise."

They both shot each other a blank look.

"Why—?" they started to ask each other, before Harry cut them off.

Harry sighed deeply, collapsing on the crimson couch.

"Because you are," he wearily told them. "And stay that way or I'll have both your heads."

"Unconvincing reason," Hermione told him playfully, her mood lightening. "Crude threat. But I suppose that's acceptable."

Ron nodded.

"Thank Merlin," he whispered. The two of them then looked over at Harry, curious. "I really don't _know_ how I could put up with you two as friends."

"Harry!" they both said.

"Right. Sorry. I was only joking."

Ron snorted.

"Right. Yeah, I really wasn't, was I?"

oooo

She received an owl from Draco the next morning, stating that a meeting with the prefects and the newly received staff was due this evening after dinner. It was like a welcoming meeting, if you will, and _the_ meeting to also straighten out the ground rules. A mandatory thing to avoid huge masses of chaos later on.

Hermione stared at the letter in her hands for a bit, before sighing and crumpling it down into a sharply-pointed, peculiar paper ball. She threw it in the direction of the wastebasket, and luckily enough, she made it in.

She made her way to in front of her mirror, knotting her tie and staring at it intently. The mirror was quiet, and as Hermione remembered, she smiled. There were some things in the Muggle world she favored than the improvised versions in the wizarding world – such as mirrors. Why, that mirror had been rude and barking insults about her physical appearance like it had some sort of disease. It'd even had the nerve to call her Freckle Face!

Silencing it had been one of the best decisions of her life; there was no doubt about it.

But the weird thing was, she remembered, was that the mirror in the Heads bathroom was also silent. She remembered that the mirror there had always been giggly and a bit on the excessive side of femininity, always trying to talk to her about how handsome Draco was when she had tried to observe herself in the mirror after a bath.

Hermione scrunched her face up in wonder as she tugged on her tie, straightening it.

She had never considered silencing that mirror. It was quite funny, hearing it ramble on like some lovesick and pining little schoolgirl, though it was always rather disturbing, considering that she was talking about Draco Malfoy. The mirror had been worse than Parvati and Lavender combined.

Hermione laughed, finally realizing.

_Drac—er, Malfoy_ had shut it up. She could only try to imagine what sorts of things the mirror would say to him during his stay there, and she knew it had to be too overly flattering for him. He must have gotten fed up or irritated after a while, not to rule out a bit disturbed and troubled from the mirror's little infatuation with him and silenced it. Although a part of her didn't understand why. He had always been a monstrous, conceited beast. She then wondered how far his fan base really did go.

Hermione smiled, mentally imaging the irritated and bothered look on his face and taking absolute delight in it.

It _was_ quite funny, really.

It was amazing how even mirrors could have crushes on Draco Malfoy. Sure, he was a good-looking bloke, but he was evil and bigoted. Plus, he was insufferably narrow-minded. That was not so attractive.

Hermione pulled her hair into a casual bun before pulling on her sweater and her robes. She looked over in the direction of the window before heading to retrieve her book bag. She had taken a peek this morning, remembering that she had forgotten all about it during the past stressful days. There was very light snowfall, the grounds outside still coated in a flurry of white snow. She had thought to herself about the verdict for today since there was nothing special going on outside that it was going to be a fairly nice day. But she could never be sure, anymore. Not when something inside her squirmed and told her that the storm wasn't over just yet.

She checked the contents inside her book bag quickly before clasping the flap and sliding it onto her shoulder. She said aloud the spell for the lights and the room suddenly dimmed, opening the door and going out to make her way to the Great Hall.

Once she entered, she noticed some scowls still sent her direction but merely dismissed them in a cool manner. She looked around, searching for Ginny, and spotted the redhead beaming at her, waving. Hermione suddenly remembered that everyone was on good terms now, seeing Ron and Harry sitting in front of Ginny. She noticed that there was a vacant seat next to a beaming Harry, which she knew that he undoubtedly saved for her.

She smiled, feeling quite happy that things were back to the way they had been once before. She _had_ missed sitting with Ron and Harry, even though her bitterness had done its best to cover that up. After six and a half years, what else could she have expected? All it took was to see it again, like an old picture waiting for her to enter, and she felt that same warmth of having her best friends beside her again.

Though she _could_ be without them and still have a great time, it still wasn't quite the same. She guessed that she'd just forgotten how it was to have Harry and Ron sitting with her again. She had just wanted to forget so that it was easier _not_ to have the notion inside her head to apologize. But she was still, to make a strong note about this sure fact, big on independence. And she _wasn't_ codependent.

No, she wasn't.

She made her way to them, grinning like a pigtailed schoolgirl. She took the seat next to Harry, who greeted her with a wide smile and Ron, who greeted her with the usual muffled remark due to his mouthful of food. Ginny bid her good morning, and she returned it, eyes sparkling.

Hermione grabbed an orange and some porridge as Ginny started up a conversation.

"No longer hating each other's guts, are you now?" she asked.

"For now," said Hermione.

"Right," Harry agreed. "With these two, in about two to three days, they'll have another spat."

Ron rolled his eyes and Hermione shook her head, all the while knowing that he was only speaking the truth.

"Well, since we're on speaking terms again," Harry said to her, "are you still coming to watch us during Quidditch practice?"

Hermione cursed. Silently. "Harry, you know I've still got the paper and Head Duties," she said exasperatedly.

"Come on, Hermione. We've gotten _loads_ better. Won't you at least come take a look?"

"Well, then, when is your next one?" she asked, not really anticipating their Quidditch practices. That was one thing she was glad to do without during their stint apart. Quidditch was always deathly boring to her, and seeing people so high up, diving so fast into the ground and whatnot, always made her think like she'd have a sudden heart attack at any moment. She had always hated flying, and seeing them up there made her ridiculously concerned though she knew they were indeed very good at flying. She was also not very good at sudden movements. Not good at all. She was very jumpy when it came to Quidditch and sudden fast movements.

"Next week," Harry told her. "Saturday, at noon. Will you come watch us? Please, Hermione? We've got some new tactics and strategies I'd like you to see."

"We might have a meeting," she said weakly. She never liked it when Harry looked at her like that, not to mention when his voice was pleading at her like it was now.

"But you don't know yet, do you?" he asked her, his voice still as imploring as ever. His green eyes were begging her, hopeful and sad, and she felt as if she wanted to pull her hair out.

'_Damn it! Damn you, Harry James Potter!'_

"There's no plan yet," she said reluctantly. "But we've only just recruited the staff and we're going to be very busy this first month."

"But when you know, can you at least see us when your meeting ends?" he asked her.

Hermione sighed, looking at him with a small and weak smile on her face. "I suppose so. But it all depends, all right? I'm not making any promises."

Harry grinned before he suddenly embraced her, and Hermione's eyes widened from his sudden and surprising action. This was certainly new.

She hadn't known he had missed her _this_ much. Why, it was almost frightening.

Over at the Slytherin table, a young Malfoy scowled and turned away.

"H-Harry?" she stammered, shocked.

Harry pulled back, smiling at her. She felt blood rush to her cheeks, quickly looking around to see if anyone had seen.

They had.

"Sorry about that. It's just great to have you back, Hermione," he said to her, and Hermione – albeit nervously – laughed.

Ginny looked over at the Slytherin table in time to catch a certain platinum blond boy's reaction, and she shook her head as she turned back to them.

"Harry, do you know on Thursday," Ron suddenly called out, his voice muffled by the strips of bacon and egg in his mouth. "Was it a chair Neville levitated then smashed into the wall, or Seamus' trunk? Remember? And then his knickers fell out and dropped down on Dean's head?"

Seamus turned a very deep shade of maroon.

oooo

Hermione headed to the Meeting Room after their classes with Ginny by her side. They had gone to their rooms first, Ginny to her dormitories and Hermione to her room to drop off some stuff that were unnecessary for the meeting.

They met in the corridor entering the Gryffindor dormitories and common room before they headed down together to the Meeting Room. Ginny was chatting excitedly about how excellent their first issue of the Harmonium would be, and Hermione found her mind wandering back to the "supercilious beast."

She stared ahead, her eyes focused on a point that she herself was not even sure she was focusing on. Her heart skipped when she saw the image of him inside her mind, but she ignored it, struggling to think about other matters but never fully succeeding. She thought about the way he had been angry with her the last time they had talked, and felt a pang of justified ill feelings. She knew she had also been overly cold and rude after Harry had interrupted what was left of their conversation, but it was like a reflex, seeing him get so suddenly angry and irritated with her best friend. She still didn't understand the negativity he held for Harry and why he held so much of it.

But, somehow, Hermione felt some uneasy knots in her stomach when she thought of it.

"Hermione? _Hermione_?"

Hermione shook herself free from her dazed train of thought, Malfoy still lingering like cobweb mildew on her mind as she looked over at Ginny, who was eyeing her worriedly with a glint of curiosity residing in her eyes.

"Are you all right? I've called your name at least seven times, and you seemed to be… totally oblivious. Like you're in some fantasy dreamland of some sort."

Hermione laughed nervously, breaking their eye contact and looking ahead. "No, I was just thinking."

Ginny nodded her head, but was still giving her an odd look. "Right. Thinking. About _what_, Hermione? What could it be that would make you totally zone out like that? What could it be that you're suddenly deaf to the calling of your own name?"

"It's nothing," Hermione told her, shaking her head.

Ginny snorted. "Hermione, don't toy with me right now, all right? I think I deserve to know, considering that I _am_ your best friend and all. At least, your female one. Now, at least answer me this: are you thinking about a _bloke_?"

Hermione shook her head furiously. "No!" she said hurriedly, nervous of the tone and hint of suspicion in Ginny's voice. "No, Ginny. Just the paper, classes and Head duty. You know, it makes you a bit… oblivious, sometimes," she said uncertainly. Ginny laughed, and Hermione cursed mentally.

"Come _on_, Hermione. Don't be such a _prude_. Tell me who he is," she insisted enthusiastically. "Obviously you've got a bit of the fancy-fever, and I _demand_ to know with whom!"

"_N-no_!" she sputtered wildly. "Ginny, I don't fancy anyone right at the moment, all right?"

"Oh, _come_ on, Hermione. I think I know you well enough to tell when you are _clearly_ not stating the truth."

Hermione let out an irritated sigh. "I _refuse_ to play this absurd game with you, Ginny Weasley," she huffed.

"I'm hurt," pouted Ginny. "_Absolutely_ hurt. You won't confide in me and you say that I'm your best friend." Hermione gave her a look, and Ginny rolled her eyes. "_One_ of your best friends," she corrected dryly. "But what does that matter? Best mates _confide_ in each other, Hermione! If we've got a _secret_, we _tell_, _share_ and _decide_!"

"Wait," Hermione said, turning to her. "_'Decide_'?"

Ginny shrugged. "You know, decide whether it's a smart secret to keep to yourself and all that rubbish," she said quickly. "Now, I _demand_ to know—"

"_Ginny_," Hermione said aloud, full of annoyance and frustration. "I'm not smitten with _anyone_, alright? I think it's quite clear now that your intentions of trying to get me to confess my secret love for Draco Malfoy have clearly gone to waste, okay? Just, _stop it_, please?"

"But, Hermione, if you would just look over at each of your compatibilities – you know, they do say that hate and love are indeed –"

She looked back at Ginny, her expression hinting nothing less than seriousness. "Ginny," she said sternly. "Would you _stop_ these claims? There's _nothing_ there, if you could just get over your silly ideas and take off that blindfold that you call the Matchmaker's _stupidity_," she spat, "you'd see it the way it is. There's _nothing_ there. _Nothing_, Ginny. I mean…" she faltered. What _did_ she mean? "He's _Draco Malfoy_," she said firmly, trying to regain her confident momentum. "I daresay that the day we'd have a mutual interest in each other" – she'd had to force out the words, and even than her mouth felt tingly and her face impulsively soured – "would be the end of the world."

Ginny shook her head. "I beg to disagree. There _is _something, Hermione," she insisted. "And it is _not_ stupidity, for your rather very false information. You have your smarts, your logic and reason. But that's all rubbish, Hermione. You can't analyze or predict love. Love is more complex than logic, books, charts or any of that whole lot," she raved, a wild look in her eyes. Her hair was like a halo of fire. "There's no telling, and you _can't_ cover it up." Hermione sighed, her eyes burning with a strong will of denial. "And," she firmly added on, "Never say never."

"_Stop it_, Ginny," she snapped. "Just _stop it_."

"I see the way you look at him," Ginny told her, ignoring Hermione's words. "You know there's something there too, Hermione. And the way you get so flustered when the subject happens to be him and it's brought up. Lately you're so lost in your bloody thoughts, and no, it's not _just_ about your assignments or Head duties. Not even _just_ about the paper. You're thinking of _him_. All of it fits perfectly, if you'd just push away all your logic and reason. Some things don't need to have a reason at all."

"That's preposterous," said Hermione. Inside, the knots in her stomach were twisting and tugging, pulling and stretching painfully. There were shouts flaring from her heart and mind and they rang so loudly that she could not hear them clearly. Her mouth was parched, her throat just as dry. "Ginny, there's no need for logic about this matter. Merely common sense."

"Hermione, what's common sense when it comes to love?" Ginny asked her. "Common sense in love is like anger-management classes to my brother!"

"Would you just _drop_ it?" she asked, fighting the urge to tear out her own hair. "We're late for the bloody meeting, Ginny, and to be quite frank with you, I don't need this right now. The samples sent in were a massive letdown and disaster, I've got Harry up my arse to come and watch your Quidditch practice when the paper isn't even at its stable step, and now _this_? Honestly, Ginny, I don't have _time_ for love, or whatever that rubbish is that you're talking about. Now, we best hurry before Draco gets into a fight with Blaise without someone there who is willing to interfere!" And with that, Hermione turned on her heel and rapidly stomped down the corridor, not bothering to look back if Ginny was following after her.

Ginny sighed, arms folded, as she watched her best friend's retreating back.

"She is _totally_ smitten," she muttered to herself, before sighing again and walking down to the Meeting Room.

oooo

Hermione's thoughts were all so painfully clustered in her mind.

'_Oh, Merlin. Ginny's gone mad.'_

All this nonsense about love. 'It's such a joy, isn't it?'

"If joy means torture, anger, annoyance and frustration, then, why, yes, it is a _total_ joy by all means," she muttered to herself angrily, nearing the door of the Meeting Room.

But as she came closer, she felt an odd feeling creep inside her. She sucked in a sharp breath, feeling alarm and uneasiness prickle through her mental conversation. She stopped at the door, looking worriedly at the portrait beside it. Hermione looked down the hall and saw Ginny walking towards her at her usual, wistful pace.

"Ginny, hurry up," she called out to her.

"Why?"

"Something's not right," she called out to her. Ginny rolled her eyes, but started into a jog and caught up to her beside the portrait. Hermione quickly said the password, but as the door opened, deafening yells and shouts filled their ears. She felt her heart stop, cautiously but hurriedly walking in.

Ginny was right by her side, also concerned and worried, not to mention surprised.

There was a large mass of shouting and screaming prefects and members of the new staff of the Harmonium formed in a circle. People were bellowing out names, and Hermione felt her breath cease in her throat as she heard one of them.

"Go get 'em, Malfoy!"

'_Malfoy?'_

Hermione hurried to the crowd, pushing through the students. Her eyes widened when she finally saw what the cause of the horrible raucous and excitement was all about.

Hermione gasped, terror, panic and shock surging through her veins.

"_Malfoy_?" she shrieked.


	12. Blaise's Boxing Match

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: Guess who owns Harry Potter? J.K. Rowling does!

* * *

Yeah, this is probably the longest (and slowest) Draco and Hermione fic you'll ever read.

Probably.

* * *

**Blaise's Boxing Match**

Draco swung at Blaise Zabini, his fist colliding with Blaise's chiseled face, the room booming with more shouts of thrill and agony from the spectators. Blaise threw a punch at Draco, a burning fire of hatred and anger in his eyes, but Draco ducked his blow and kneed him. Blaise's eyes widened before he fell to his knees, cupping his crotch and writhing in pain.

"Hey! That's not fair! You're not supposed to pitch an act of violence down _there_!" someone shouted from the encircled audience.

Draco, meanwhile, didn't care.

He wiped the blood trickling from his cut lip, fiercely looking at everyone. His eyes were icy and could effortlessly split a boulder. He shouted an assortment of words that some people had to cover their ears to protect their lively innocence.

"Malfoy, that's enough!" he heard someone shout. Draco turned towards the direction of the stern voice and found himself looking at a very, very angry and red-faced Ernie MacMillian. Sounds of protest were also heard around the room, but there was not as many as before for he had already charged at a couple of the people who had tried to stop the fight. Draco smirked at him, convinced he could dice the pale and gangly Hufflepuff to pieces in two blows.

"This was supposed to be a Welcome Meeting for the paper's staff, and you make it into some _fighting_ rally!"

"MacMillian," he spat. "I _don't_ care."

"You're _Head Boy_, Malfoy!" he shouted. "You're not supposed to be and you don't _deserve_ to be at all, but you are! Don't you have any sense of integrity or pride left?"

Draco scowled, nearing the fuming prefect. He could still hear his last challenger groaning in pain. "Pride, MacMillian?" he growled. "You're just angry because they didn't choose your puny, pale, and suck-up arse for the position," he said lowly, a sharp and bitter tone flicking from his tongue. "You've been on my case since I've been appointed Head Boy because you're just pissing, bloody _jealous_. You just can't _believe _that they chose me, a Slytherin, over a Hufflepuff. Well, guess _what_, MacMillian? I'm better than you are, and _everyone_ knows it. Reason they chose _me_, not _you_," he spat. "Face it."

"You're just a _spoiled_, arrogant arsehole," Ernie hissed back. "You're nothing special at all. I wouldn't be surprised if your father _bought_ you the bloody position. A boy with the fate of a Death Eater, a life to spend in the prison cells of Azkaban. They just want to give you a taste of glory before you rot right beside your Death Eater friends, just like your _father_."

Draco felt anger burst through him, rushing through his body and gushing like molten lava through his veins. Raw, hard and icy rage ate him whole, his fury overshadowing everything he had inside him.

And before anyone knew what was happening, Draco's fist had slammed into Ernie's face and he lay crumpled on the ground. The viewers gasped and some shouted protest. Some cheered him on.

"_Get up_, MacMillian!" he shouted at him, livid. If anything, Draco knew for certain that the Hufflepuff was surely going to be mincemeat.

Ernie slowly got up from the ground, his nostrils flaring like a raging bull, one side of his face already starting to swell. "You're going to rot inside those dungeons!" Ernie shouted at him. "Right beside the Dark Lord and your _bastard _father!" Ernie charged towards him and threw a punch at Draco, but Draco was quick and dodged it easily. Ernie staggered, but didn't turn around fast enough as at the turn of his head, Draco had already landed another brutal punch in his gut. Ernie's eyes widened and he let out a strangled shout, his knees quaking and his eyes squinted in pain. People tried to grab Draco and pull him back just as when the fight had first started, but he jerked away.

With the grabbing hands and the angry shouts distracting him, he didn't see that Blaise Zabini had already recovered and grasped his ankles with his wiry hands. Before Draco could look down, Blaise had pulled him down and Draco fell hard to the ground, his jaw colliding with the cold surface of the floor. His jaw missed his tongue just barely, and he was convinced that if that hadn't been the case, he would be having two pieces of it instead of one.

Draco grunted, squirming aggressively to free himself from the other Slytherin, but Blaise had pinned him down using his body weight.

"You dingy, festering—" Draco was caught off as he ground his teeth in pain as Blaise twisted his arm behind his back.

"_What_ was that, Malfoy?" Blaise said to him.

Draco stifled his cries of pain, his eyes shut so tightly that he was beginning to see blots and blotches of colors dancing around him. "—Fuckwit," Draco managed to say, but Blaise, hearing his words, twisted his arm even more.

"You know, Malfoy, if you're lucky, I could get your arm to snap off," Blaise chuckled. "But, Merlin, what am I thinking? Where would you get your Dark Mark if I were to break it off?"

"_Merlin_, Zabini," Draco grunted, trying to shift around. "How much do you bloody weigh? You sure weigh more than Millicent and Crabbe and Goyle combined."

"Oh, stuff your damn mouth, Malfoy," said Blaise irritably.

"Angry that you won't be able to make future horrid generations of Blaise Zabinis?" Draco managed to say, despite the pain. He wasn't one to show weakness to the pain and keep quiet when someone was actually bestowing him the pain. That was not the Malfoy way. And there _was_ his pride, not to be left unmentioned. Draco knew that over his dead body would he let Blaise Zabini break off his arm before Draco killed him first. "Not that it matters, of course. We're all overjoyed. We all know that your offspring would be much more worse than the Dark Lord's himself, if he had anything there to plant inside a woman's womb so that she may give birth to Satan Junior."

"_Shut up_, Malfoy," Blaise hissed, and Draco could almost hear the cracking of his bones. He squinted his eyes in slight agony. "If I'm not going to be able to have kids, I swear, you're going to _die_ before you get a chance."

Draco chuckled, though painfully. "How do you know I haven't had the chance, Zabini?"

There was more shouting, louder this time, and Draco felt Blaise's struggle as he guessed someone was trying to pull him off. Draco felt his grip loosen, and he would have sighed in relief were he were no longer in pain. But he was. So there was no sigh in sight.

"Get off of him!" he heard someone shout.

"Get your bloody hands off of me!" yelled Blaise.

"If someone's going to finish off Malfoy, it'll be _me_!"

"In your bloody _dreams_, MacMillian! Now, let go before I snap off your arm too!"

There was more bickering, and Draco rolled his eyes impatiently.

'_Oh joy,_' he silently muttered to himself. _'I've got two twits fighting over who'll get to kill me. What a splendid thing to hear when your arm feels painfully dead, due to the fact that Zabini is ridiculously heavy and practically sat on it. What does he eat at meals? Sodding furniture?_'

Suddenly, to his great relief and joy, Ernie tackled Blaise. Draco almost wanted to laugh at the sight, but instead let out that sweltering deep sigh despite the throbbing pain in his stomach and chest that made him want to keel over, sitting up and rubbing his arm, trying to make the numbness fade.

"Damn." Draco started slapping and punching his arm, trying to get some feeling back into it. "_Shit!"_ he shouted angrily. He looked up, and Ernie and Blaise were on the floor, still fighting on which individual would get to kill the rich Malfoy.

Draco, livid because of his arm, stood up, glaring at Blaise Zabini. He walked over to them and kicked them both very hard square in the stomach, which made them get their minds back to Enemy Number One and the person they had wanted to kill in the first place.

Ernie was the first to get up, and he charged at him.

"You Hufflepuffs are _so_ fragile," Draco drawled as he punched his jaw, sending him backwards. His other arm lay limply and heavily at his side, and as he winced, he could feel the twinges and stings of pain rocketing up it now. He was no nurse, but he was certain it was either sprained or broken.

But while Draco was beating Ernie to a bloody pulp, Blaise recovered quickly and tackled him from behind. He tried to pin Draco down again, but Draco elbowed him in the eye (really quite grotesque, but better Blaise than him) and Blaise shouted in surprise and pain before Draco shoved him off. Blaise was on the ground, blinking, cursing, and rubbing his eye quite frantically, as Draco halted in front of him. He smirked down on him, his damp, sweaty silver-blond hair falling over his eyes.

"What about it, Zabini? Think I should give it another go, preventing you from making any more demons to roam this earth? After all, you're Demon Senior, and _surely_, one is enough."

"Don't you dare, Malfoy," Blaise warned him. He cupped the gem he was eager on keeping and to keep functioning. Apparently, his eye was still a bit messed up, and Draco knew he was a wimp and too stupid to try and get him even with one blind eye, because he snorted.

"I think I do." And he swung his foot back, Blaise's eyes widening for he knew even though his hands were supposedly protecting it, it would be not much of a help.

"Go get 'em, Malfoy!" he heard someone shout. But as his foot was racing forward, a sick look of utter satisfaction on his face, feeling the victory of a long-coming retribution, he suddenly felt something cold wash over him and bitter tingles erupting from his skin.

Before he knew it, there was silence in the room (actually, first, he was convinced he had gone deaf, and then he had realized that he had, in fact, not), and he was frozen stiff. The sudden absence of the raucous roared in his ears, and utter confusion filled him. He tried to move, with only his head the part of his body that still seemed to move freely, but no avail. He looked around in alarm, surprised to see that everyone else was frozen too, thus the sudden dead silence. He rather missed the rioting pandemonium.

"_What_ in Merlin's _name_?" he said to himself, baffled.

He knew it had to be a spell, and before he could speculate anymore, the familiar sight of the russet-haired Gryffindor Head Girl appeared before him like a vision. Draco gave her a look that was a blend of a sneer and a smirk (an extraordinary talent), despite that even his face hurt, not surprised at all.

"Of course, the noble Gryffindor Head Girl has come to save the day. What joy," he said dryly. "Now, may I ask, where is your shining armor and white steed? And here I thought that was a requirement."

Hermione glowered at him, her hands on her hips and her wand in one hand. Draco was rather delighted to see her so angry at him, but he felt his annoyance and anger bubble inside him too, remembering that she had been the cause of this rotten day and rotten fight since the beginning, anyway.

Yes, it did trigger something inside him whenever he saw her with her daft friends or that stupid Hufflepuff boy that had tried to slightly romance her outside in the snow. It made him angry, for what reason, he didn't know and was rather irked at that fact as well. He noticed he only felt it when he saw her with another bloke – it was, above all, strange. And not to mention very, very annoying. After all, why should he care? Hufflepuff was the House for half-wits, and if she wanted to be swept off of her feet by those canary-yellow-wearing pricks, then so be it! It was not any of his business at all! She was a Mudblood for heaven's sake, and everyone associated with her in such friendly and disgusting terms deserved to be scowled at and hated. And, he thought, that was that. End of story. He did not, _should_ not care about how she spent her time. He hated her, absolutely despised her for everything that she was.

But what infuriated him that these days was that he actually had to remind himself of that fact. As if having it embedded inside his brain by his father was not enough. And, he swore this on Merlin's knickers, that that had never been a problem before.

He knew it was this morning. He saw the way that her friend Harry Saint Potter had embraced her in the Great Hall, and for some very odd reason, he didn't like it. Sure, he had denied it, but the sight of them embracing was enough to make him lose his appetite, which caused him to be hungry during the rest of their classes, which caused him to be much more angry.

'_Ugh. Of course it was to be expected, but must they really do it in front of everyone?'_ he had thought disgustedly with annoyance. _'If they start snogging my vomit will be the new décor on the floor. Cheap, smelly, and inexpensive. Like Granger._'

Which, of course, was not true. He knew that she smelled rather nice. Maybe even more than nice. Flowery, meltingly nice. A scent very unfitting for a filthy Mudblood, and that disconcerted him. He just didn't understand what was becoming of him now. Caring about Mudblood Granger and her romantic liaisons? Merlin, what was he, some randy loser?

There was just something about her that made him feel totally at ease one minute, and… possessive and angry the next. He didn't know what. What could he possibly feeling that made him like this? Had she somehow bewitched him or cast some sort of spell on him? But why? He had enough mood swings when it came to her that it rivaled those of a pregnant lady. Or even a woman on menopause, to think of it.

"Malfoy, I _demand_ to know what is happening," she said lowly, her voice hinting danger and a temperamental storm coming up ahead.

"What a disappointment. So that's a no to the white steed? How terribly sad," he said quite begrudgingly, hating her and her appearance. It was _now_ she showed up. Great. Stupid bint.

"Malfoy," she said warningly. Her eyes were dark and dangerous. "_Tell_ me what happened here. I demand an answer at _once_."

"Why, Granger? Didn't see the show? Oh, what a shame. It _was_ a really spectacular one. Almost got my arm snapped off by Zabini. You'd have had the time of your life, I bet." Hermione's eyes dimmed, her mouth pressed into a firm, tight line. Draco quite liked seeing her this way and sent back a reciprocating look.

"Don't you dare toy with me, Malfoy," she snapped. "I think you and I both know this is not the time for your sarcasm and crude humor, all right? Just tell me what in Merlin's name happened to get Ernie on the ground," she said, pointing behind him, "Blaise on his knees looking like he's come face to face with Death himself, and you… _you_, looking like you're about to kick his head off like it's some… _football_!"

Draco furrowed his eyebrows, confused by her choice of words. "Sorry, _football_?" he asked her.

Hermione let out a loud frustrated sigh. Suddenly, she drew her wand and pressed the point against his throat, which made Draco abruptly swallow down hard with surprise. "Listen, Malfoy," she snarled. "Are you going to tell me, or _not_? Because I can ask the other people here, such as Blaise or Ernie, and I'm utmost sure they'd give me the _honest truth_, because, by Merlin, I am utterly _sick_ of your jokes and sarcasm, trying to make this like it's absolutely no big deal. But I'll bet you my Head Girl badge that in both their views, _you_ were the bad guy, the one who _provoked the fight_! And that's enough to make you lose your _badge_!"

Draco stared hard at her. "It wasn't me," he simply told her.

He didn't go on, and Hermione waited, an eyebrow raised expectedly. "And?"

"And, if you unfreeze me, I'll tell you the rest. And, bloody hell, Granger, point that _thing_ somewhere _else_, would you?"

Hermione sighed, but as she put down her wand, she made no move to unfreeze him.

"The sooner the better, Granger," he told her impatiently. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, but he just scowled at her. "I've got no wand, and I've broken MacMillian's and Zabini's. How do you think they're not dead yet? _Really_, Granger. I don't fight like this unless I'm forced to. What do you think I am? A Muggle?"

Hermione sighed sharply, walking behind him.

"Wait. What are you doing?" he asked her, befuddled.

Draco's eyes widened when he felt her small hands press against his back and side, his mouth and throat suddenly becoming more parched than before. A barrage of odd sensations tensed through his body, a strange look of alarm on his face.

"Don't _think_ for a moment that I don't know what you were about to do," she said from behind him. Draco didn't speak, his body sending out indecipherable messages from her touch. Her hands were petite and their warmth sent tingles and creeping shivers to climb up his body. He could feel their gentleness and daintiness though his shirt protected him from actual touching, but even just the feel of her hands this close made his breath suddenly stop in his throat.

Why, God, oh _why_ did she have to touch him? Did she not know that he was now going to burn in pure-blood hell because of her physical contact?

She was moving him.

Her hand pressed harder against his back, one hand with the wand clutching his side firmly. She turned him the other way so that when he unfroze, he would kick nothing but air. Rather clever, really, but was that necessary?

Hermione felt her cheeks burning, as well as her hands. It was a dead-on fact that she was infuriated by him at the moment and that if he wouldn't cooperate like she had asked him to this time, she would inflict bodily harm onto him – ignoring his current physical state – but when her hands pressed against his body… she didn't think the room could ever be this hot.

She could feel his lean, slender and toned body through his shirt, for he was without his cloak and sweater vest also, and there was a misty thought in her mind that went, _'So _that's_ what Parvati and Lavender meant.'_ She tried to swallow hard, trying to keep her logic in place. Unwanted sinful thoughts and pictures suddenly flashed through her mind, and she swore under her breath as she shook them away.

Finally, she let go of him quickly as if she was suddenly burned, her cheeks flushed and her heart pounding.

'_Like what you felt?'_

'_No! NO!'_

She closed her eyes and let out a shaky breath, trying to compose her flustered self, clutching her wand tightly. She whispered the spell, afraid to meet his eyes when he did unfreeze.

Draco felt a rush of a cold wave of shivers as he heard her whisper the spell softly. Somehow, hearing her speak that way made something his stomach flutter. He was all too glad when her hands let go of him, yet thought better of it as his heart began to beat nothing short of dangerously against his chest.

He sighed in relief when he felt his mobility, but winced as he felt the throbbing pain come back to his arm and stomach. His twisted arm felt painfully and unusually bulky, and his stomach felt sore and tender. He felt like he had just been beaten the pulp out of, which, he obviously had been, but from the tone of his "partner's" voice, it appeared to him that she hadn't noticed. Maybe he had been hoping for a little sympathy.

"So?" Hermione asked, still behind him. "The story?" Draco turned around to face her, and Hermione swallowed hard when she realized how close they were. She gasped when she saw his face.

Now she noticed. He refused the urge to snort from her lateness only because that would ruin everything if she did decide to let him kick Zabini in his very special place by way of sympathy.

"Merlin," she said. "You look terrible."

It was now that Draco snorted.

"Thanks, Granger. Actually, we're _all_ supposed to look blindingly beautiful after we've gotten into a fistfight, so, I take the thanks back."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Just get on with it, Malfoy."

Draco sneered, regardless of the pain. "Well, in a nutshell, Granger, Zabini pissed in his sodding pants when you weren't here yet, considering that _you_ were supposed to announce the greeting, rules, and all that mandatory nonsense," he said accusingly. "The arsehole started to pick a fight with _me_, after I told him I had no knowledge of your location whatsoever, and well, needless to say, I was lit on a very short fuse this morning. The Hufflepuff prick said to stop and then insulted my father, claiming that I was a Death Eater and that I would rot in Azkaban along with him, and I went after him too. It wasn't very pleasant, but it's really all right because I'm not in _total_ agony as much as they are," he said haughtily. "But, now that you've heard what happened, I'm sure you'll see that it isn't my fault at all. I'm utterly faultless."

"Malfoy," Hermione sighed. "You _know_ you're not supposed to provoke Blaise, and I'm almost certain that you did. After all these meetings watching you two lunge at each other's throats, how am I even surprised this happened when it was totally expected?"

"You're _surprised_? And here I thought you knew everything. Always knew you Gryffindors liked to spread rumors about yourselves to boost your self-esteem. "

"You know your duties as a Head Boy," she said to him seriously, ignoring his remark. "Your badge can be taken away from you and most possibly will be. Don't you have the slightest bit of morality at all, Malfoy?"

"I don't give a damn about morality," he told her irritably, always annoyed when she brought up her bloody morals. "And I most _certainly_ don't give a damn about _you_ lecturing me about them."

Hermione scowled at him, annoyed by his rude remarks. "Your cocky facade is getting _far_ too old," she informed him coldly.

And before he could say another word, with a fast swish of her wand and the saying of a spell, the room returned back to its lively and shouting state.

The shouting went on for but a minute, for once they saw that Draco was no longer making sure that Blaise would be incapable of impregnating any woman, they quieted down and mumbled in confusion.

Alas, they were met with a terror that was an angry and bothered Hermione Granger.

"_Quiet!"_ she shouted above all the raucous, and the room did so at her command. Draco discovered that he was fairly impressed at her power, smirking proudly at all the clueless spectators.

"Malfoy, Zabini and MacMillian will follow me to the hospital wing," she barked sternly, eyeing each of them. "As for all of you, you'd better _hope_ I forget about the fact that none of you tried to put a stop to this. Don't let it be a surprise if Dumbledore asks to see any of _you_," she threatened.

She turned to Draco, Blaise and Ernie with a sour expression on her face.

"Let's _go_," she snapped at them. She headed out of the room while the students inside the room nervously began to dither while some tried to help up Blaise and Ernie. Draco merely followed after Hermione, his nose in the air.

"Get your _hands_ off me," Blaise snarled at a Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. He jerked away from them and Ernie also refused help from his fellow Hufflepuff prefect.

"You know, Granger, you're not so attractive when you have that unpleasant look on your face," he remarked in his usual tone as Ernie and Blaise had just started following after them.

Hermione shot him a glare, her face twisted into a very un-Gryffindor-like glower.

Draco only then realized the possibility that he was rubbing off on her.

His smirk widened.

That'll certainly be the day.


	13. The Object of Her Frustration

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, et cetera, et cetera.

**The Object of Her Frustration**

Madam Pomfrey gave them each a look of disapproval as she neared them. She then turned to Hermione, who seemed to be the leader of the battered pack.

"Do I even _want_ to know, Miss Granger?" she asked her, her brow raised to a very high arch.

Hermione shook her head. "No, I don't think you'd want to," she replied stiffly, still upset with the trio of the bloodied mass.

The stout nurse nodded, giving the boys behind Hermione an icy glare. "I'll fetch the necessary supplies," she said.

"But you haven't even examined our wounds yet," said Ernie.

In response, the nurse shot him a look that quieted him instantly. "I've been a nurse here for as long as I can remember, Mister MacMillian," she said to him in a stern tone. "And with the especially rowdy lot of you these past seven years, I really do think I can guess what wounds or fractures you have and be correct. I really _don't_ know what's gotten into you young folk nowadays, always eager to be one step closer to getting expelled or killed."

Her lips pursed into a menacing tight line and her brows furrowed in annoyance, Madam Pomfrey then turned on her heel and walked towards her office to get her medical equipment.

"Old cow," Blaise scornfully muttered under his breath.

Hermione's head snapped in his direction, her eyes narrowed into slits.

Blaise stuck out his chin at her defiantly. "I still don't bloody know why _she's_ still here. If Dumbledore _wasn't_ a crazy old coot, she'd have been forced into retirement years ago."

Hermione opened her mouth to snap at him, but someone got to him first.

"Give it a bloody rest, Zabini," a familiar drawl came from beside them. Draco had situated himself on the bed, lying down, making himself comfortable. He shifted around in the sea of colorless sheets, putting one arm behind his head. "We've had enough of your whiny complaints for one day."

Blaise scowled at Draco, but said nothing more. It seemed that he had learned his lesson.

"Sod off, Malfoy," he snapped at him bitterly.

Or maybe not.

Draco raised his eyebrows at him teasingly, and Hermione rolled her eyes. If she had something to throw at him, she would have made sure to hit him square in the face. She was tired of their endless enmity.

"All of you shut up," she barked at them. "I don't want to hear another word, and if I do, you'll all get detention with Filch, do you understand?"

"You can't do that to us," Blaise objected.

"Try me," she said lowly, her eyes narrowing even more.

"We're prefects! You can't—"

"That's _it_! Zabini, you get over there," Hermione harshly instructed him, pointing to the bed nearest Madam Pomfrey's office, a good distance away from them – this was necessary. "_Now_. Don't you dare test me. I can convince Dumbledore to _make_ you hand in your badge."

Blaise glowered at her but made his way to the bed, all the while mumbling to himself. For while the Slytherin boy hated the Head Girl quite much, the Prefect perks weren't worth giving up just to put her in her place.

Hermione then turned to Ernie, whom she felt most sorry for since he looked the most battered and beaten. It was very obvious Ernie wasn't a fighter. The side of his face had swollen up and looked as if someone had tried to transfigure him into a plum and had failed. Miserably.

"Ernie, can you just stay over there for a bit?" Hermione asked him quietly, pointing at the bed near the door. The bed Draco was lying down on was in the middle of the infirmary, and she thought that the spacing between the three was good enough. She also wanted to make sure they couldn't easily eavesdrop — she was going to have a talk with Malfoy. Then again, maybe they should be quite near, just in case she lunged at him in an attempt to wring his throat or bash his pretty little head against the steel frame of the bed. Just a thought.

"I'm going to have a little chat with Malfoy."

Ernie nodded, but managed to send Draco a glare behind her (which she excused, just because), before walking over to his assigned bed.

Draco rolled his eyes, his head of silver hair almost blending against the white pillows. "Honestly, Granger. Hufflepuffs aren't as noble and good and gentle as you think," he said to her.

Hermione turned to him, arms crossed across her chest, her face twisted into a mean glower. To Draco, it was very obvious who she thought the culprit was behind this whole mess: Him. Fortunately, he'd gotten used to such accusations to be offended anymore.

"For Merlin's sake, Granger, you saw MacMillian! He was swinging his fists just like the rest of us — of course, he was swinging blindly like some madman, and I don't reckon he's ever really fought before because he's a _ninny_, but he was right there, proving you utterly wrong about your Hufflepuff Angels!"

"And what makes you think I think they're angels?" she asked him irritably.

Draco gave her a look before closing his eyes and dryly replying, his head down against the pillow. "I say that's a rhetorical question, because I honestly cannot believe you've asked me that. And here I thought you were clever."

"Malfoy, I don't know why you insist on tormenting Blaise and Ernie with your boorish remarks, but by Merlin, it's going to stop now, is that clear?"

Draco smirked at her, seeing the way she suddenly became the uptight Head Girl with the twisted knickers again. "You sound like my mother," he snorted.

Hermione gaped at him.

"This is _no_ time for games," she hissed. "If Dumbledore gets involved, you can bet he'll at least suspend you from Head duties and give you detention. That'll be strike one, Draco. I know you value being a Head very much, so I suggest you start cleaning up your act as of this moment if you know what's good for you."

"You called me 'Draco' again," he pointed out, quite disturbed at why and how she kept doing that. Was it just the verbal diarrhea? Or was she just really mental?

"_What?"_ she asked in disbelief. "I did _not_!"

"You did _so_. Just admit it."

"No!" she snapped. "_No_, I _won't_ admit it because I didn't _say_ it!"

Draco scowled at her, his blond brows furrowing. "Bloody _hell_, Granger. You're a difficult basketcase to talk to, do you know that? You say things and you don't even _know_ it. Now that's downright odd and very, very irritating when you're as stubborn as an arse."

Hermione glared daggers at the also annoyed Slytherin boy. "I am _not_ a basketcase," she fumed between clenched teeth. "And it would be _very_ convenient if you'd not wander off into other unrelated topics, _Malfoy_."

"Keep saying that and maybe you'll convince yourself that you are not, in fact, a basketcase. But you _are_. _Admit_ it and move on, Granger."

"I am so _sick_ of your insolent, _stupid_, ill-mannered, disrespectful, impertinent—"

"Hello, I'm Hermione Granger, the Human Thesaurus, mind if I bore you to death with my extensive vocabulary of words that all mean the same thing?" he mocked her.

Hermione gasped, her anger welling up inside her tremendously. "Well, yes, they all do mean the same thing!" she suddenly shouted at him.

Draco jumped at the sound of her raised voice, though he should have known well enough that she would pop like an over-inflated balloon any time now.

"They all mean, that _you_, Draco _bloody_ Malfoy, _you_ are a bloody insufferable swine!"

"Well, _Hermione_, I am also ridiculously rich and fit, you forgot to mention."

Hermione gaped at him, her mind unconsciously replaying the way his lips curved and moved at her name, her rage bubbling inside. Suddenly, she let out an aggravated scream, no longer able to keep in her frustration and anger. She panted heavily afterwards, steam still (well, metaphorically) shooting from her ears.

Draco looked over at her in a manner that he thought she was crazy. Which, he did, quite rightly at that. Just then, Draco looked behind her, across from them, and then back at her with a triumphant smirk.

Hermione froze, straightening herself up, trying to calm herself. There was a dead silence that echoed in the room, and she felt embarrassment flush her cheeks as she felt their eyes on her. She felt dread twist the knots in her stomach that had formed earlier. She sharply sucked in a breath as she slowly turned around towards the watching eyes.

Madam Pomfrey, who had been tending to Blaise, was now looking at her in a disturbed and surprised manner, and Blaise was looking at her as if she had a second head growing from her neck. She could also feel Ernie's eyes on her, but she didn't think she could turn – feeling positively stiff and frozen – to prove herself right. She could've died of humiliation right then and there. In fact, she wouldn't have minded if she had.

Um, Death by an Asshole for 200, please, Alex.

'_It's his fault! It's his entire fault! Everything's his bloody fault!'_ her mind screamed in a panicked voice. Her mouth felt dry as if she had just attempted to eat chalk, the same heavy stone lodged in her throat, making it impossible to swallow the aridity that she so badly wanted to extinguish.

"I-I," she idiotically stammered, her heart racing and her face feeling as if it had been doused with gasoline and was presently on fire. "I apologize… for the sudden outburst," she said nervously, but hurriedly. She could almost hear Draco snickering behind her, and she wished she had something within an arm's reach to throw at him. Oh, how she wanted to _hurt_ him in some way.

It didn't matter that he was already hurt and possibly injured, or that he was in the bed of the hospital wing. Or even the fact that Madam Pomfrey was just a few very long strides away from them. If only she had a weapon… just _something_. It didn't even have to be considered a weapon. Perhaps just like a vase of flowers or a textbook… a very, _very _heavy textbook. She just wanted to chuck something at him to inflict _some_ bodily harm to him in someway. Even though it couldn't nearly make up for all the horrible things he'd done to her in the past, it was a start, wasn't it?

"I'll-I'll be going now," she said hurriedly. "Thanks for… all your help." And with that, she ran straight for the doors and out.

oooo

Hermione was in the bath, trying to ease all of her troubles and frustrations, her main stress being none other than the egotistical creep by the name of Draco Malfoy. Her thoughts were loud and they all clustered in her mind, making everything so misty and unclear, yet thunderous and authorative. Just the thought of him seemed to boil and bubble everything inside her, making her grit her teeth, teed off.

He had embarrassed her right in front of Madam Pomfrey and two other prefects. He was trying to ruin her life, she was certain of it. She hadn't even had the chance to meet the new staff of the Harmonium because he had gotten himself into some big bloody fight with another Slytherin and a Hufflepuff. Oh, of all the nerve! Couldn't he just keep quiet and keep his hands to himself for a few minutes? What did they need to do? Gag him and strap him to a chair with a lock and chain?

Hermione leaned her head back, trying to ease herself and let the fragrance soothe away all of her tension and troubles. But though she had taken the bath to do exactly that – soothe away all of her tension and troubles – all she could think about was that-that _bumpkin_! She tried her best to block out all her thoughts for this bath was supposed to drown her mind in relaxation and tranquility and not anger her even further, but even the bath could not silence her thoughts. It was downright unfair. Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin, cocky bastard had already humiliated her and driven her insane, and now he was the dominant figure amidst all of her thoughts! As if she wasn't already all jumbled up and confused! She could swear that he was doing all of this on purpose! Acting like his true arrogant self and then making her fall in love with—

Hermione's eyes widened as she sucked in a sharp and shocked breath. Her body stiffened, forgetting all about her supposedly relaxed state. Her mind went into a sudden convulsion.

Oh _no _she didn't.

She did _not_ just—no way, it just wasn't possible—or sane—

But despite her claims in her mind, her face began to look more panicked with every minute. The words hung on her lips, and she could taste it – like _poison. _And that's exactly what it was! Poison! Bloody _hell_!

The sentence rang in her mind. It chimed loudly in deafening tones, sending the vibrations to lead shivers up her body. Those six words… those _six_ bloody words.

'_I'm in love with Draco—_'

No! No, this was _not_ happening. There was just _no_ way. God would _not_ be so cruel.

Besides, all of her thoughts were always negative. And all of said thoughts _always_ bordered on the wonderful idea of injuring him in a very delightful way – and so, there, problem solved, it was all just a mistake, no problem. But she was not – well, she was not – _that_.

Because that would be pure madness, wouldn't it? Pure, unadulterated madness. Even the _thought_ of it was insane – no, in fact, even the _thought_ of the _thought_ of it was insane. Because he was a prick! And if anything, Hermione Granger had not been brought up by her mother to fall in love with pricks! Oh Merlin. If only her mother could see her now, going insane in her bathtub, panicking over… over _that_. But it wasn't even worth panicking over, was it? Because it wasn't true. It couldn't be, just simply couldn't be. She could _not_ be – in any way, shape of form – even _remotely_ in love with…. Besides, it wasn't like she knew how it'd be like to be in love, anyway, she'd never been in love before, so it wasn't like she _knew_ anything. So how could she possibly know?

She. Wasn't. In. Love. With. That. Monster.

She tried to calm herself down, looking around the room…

"Right. Okay. That's all settled," she said to herself, quite twitchingly. For some reason she was out of breath. "No problem. Maybe I swallowed a bit of the bubbles, and it… went to my brain… and now I'm going mad. Great. I'm going mad. From bubbles. Aromatherapy bubbles. Well, I certainly then must owl them and complain."

…But the past matters would not leave her be.

"_Agh!" _she cried, plunging her head underneath the water, not wanting to surface back into the mad, mad world of gits like Draco Malfoy and thus was decidedly considering the option of drowning herself in the bath to prevent herself from doing so.

oooo

Hermione entered her room still quite disturbed and wide-eyed about the realization dawning on her. She took deep breaths, closing her eyes and trying to wish it all away, but nothing worked. It was like a tick. Bloody thing just wouldn't go away. And she thought the simile was quite fitting in the matters of Draco Malfoy – both were insufferable, hated, and blood-sucking creatures!

She went over to her dresser, looking at herself in the mirror. Her damp hair, her brown eyes. Her skin was pale and the color seemed to be holding back from flushing onto her face to bring her back to her complexion's normal hue.

There was the face of a madwoman.

Oh, Merlin.

A tapping on her window threw her back into reality and out of her absent trance as she quickly looked in the direction of the noise. She set the brush down on the dresser and headed to her window, drawing the curtain. There was an owl waiting outside for her, a letter tied to its feet.

Hermione didn't recognize the owl. She had never seen this owl before, and especially seeing its snow-white and golden feathers for its coat, she knew it wasn't a school owl.

Hermione turned the lock and pushed it open enough so that the owl could come in. She shivered as she felt the coldness of the winter night sweep in, before she shook the tremors away and closed it silently, but not bothering to lock it again. The owl flew in with a grace that Hermione knew could only come from old age, watching it land on her desk. The owl hooted at her pleasantly, sticking out its leg. She walked towards it and untied the parchment before the owl hooted again. With the letter in her hands, she looked up and the owl had started to flap its wings. It rose and flew to the window, hinting to Hermione that its sender was not awaiting a reply.

Hermione pushed the window open. The owl gave her another hoot before taking off and disappearing into the night sky. Hermione sighed, looking out, before reaching for the window again and turning the lock.

She drew the curtain before turning back to the letter in her hands. She unfolded the parchment and let her eyes read through it, line by line.

'_Greetings, Miss Granger._

_I have heard the news about the misfortune with our Head Boy and I understand that there is some dispute between the two of you. No matter, I know very well that very clever people such as you and Mister Malfoy with differences will figure out some way to settle things to friendly terms. The halls are buzzing with talk of the row between Mister Malfoy, Mister Blaise Zabini and Mister MacMillian. I was very surprised to hear this news._

_However, considering that you are the Head Girl and that Madam Pomfrey has already complained of Mister Malfoy's stubbornness, I will have to ask you to see how Mister Malfoy is doing in the hospital wing and talk of his problems with his peers. I would have myself do it, but I am rather busy with some paperwork in my office. Professor Snape would have been my second choice to console Mister Malfoy, since he is the Head of the Slytherin House, but he is away on some personal business. You might have noticed that he's missed a Potions lesson or two during the past week. Sorry to burden you with this matter, Miss Granger, but if it is not settled, more students and professors may complain and my fairness may be tested. I may have to suspend him of his duties, or appoint another Head Boy. I'm sure Mister Malfoy has worked very hard all his years here for his position, so I will let him off with a very stern warning. I would have owled him this letter myself, but unfortunately, Poppy does not allow owls into the infirmary. I ask you to tell him all this._

_According to Madam Pomfrey, Mister Malfoy is still in the hospital wing for she was very worried that he might get himself into more harm once he was released. He will be free tomorrow morning, but I must ask you to speak with him tonight. After all, you two are a team. You must look out for each other. But, I'm sure you know all this. I'm sure you care for Mister Malfoy enough to clearly warn him of where he is positioned now._

_Thank you for your time._

_Sincerely, _

_Albus Dumbledore._

_Headmaster  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.'_

Hermione let out a heavy sigh, her eyes closed in despair. She closed her hand into a fist, crumpling the parchment. Oh, how she wanted so badly to bang her head against the wall. Or, better yet, bang Draco's head against the wall.

It was a damned horrible place to be in her shoes right at the moment and she wanted nothing but to be anyone but herself for at least a day – or even just an hour. Just to get away from all the stress, Draco Malfoy, and the little squirming and annoying feelings inside her called emotions. She didn't know how to deal with this anymore.

After screaming at herself in the loo like some madwoman, their headmaster sends her an owl saying that she just _has_ to talk to the object of her frustration _tonight_. And it just couldn't wait until morning. Where was she? In hell?

Well. It sure felt like it.

Hermione wanted to keep the current distance — very far away — between her and the smirking boy, but she couldn't say no to Headmaster Dumbledore. She was a Head… she just couldn't, no matter how much she wanted to.

'_Just relax, Hermione… don't panic. He's probably asleep, anyway. You just have to tell him what Dumbledore said to tell him and… discuss his maniacal, mental issues, and then you can leave. After that, you can be as far from him as you can.'_

Hermione calmed down but she still felt her heart racing at the thought of seeing him again. She gritted her teeth at her foolishness but went on to ready herself for the hospital wing anyway.

She tied her hair back and pulled on a jumper, grabbing her wand before looking at the clock. It was far from curfew, and she knew that students would still be lurking around the corridors, but Madam Pomfrey wouldn't be expecting anyone to stop by the hospital wing at this late hour. She would probably be in her office, and Hermione knew she wasn't ready to face the nurse just yet.

Hermione nodded to herself and slipped on her shoes before standing and heading towards the door.

With a quick word, the room plunged into darkness, and she walked out.

Hermione walked down the stairs and through the corridors with nothing but the dim and flickering light of the torches on the walls. Her footsteps made a soft noise on the dark marble floors of Hogwarts as she calmly made her way to the hospital wing.

She couldn't believe _she_ had to be the one to talk to him. She would've refused it by any chance if there had been a possibility of doing so, but how would one reject a request – nay, a command – through owl? It was just not possible. Most especially not to Albus Dumbledore. The man made her guiltier than was actually considered necessary.

Oh, boy. Did she hate Malfoy something terrible!

She just didn't see the point in her taking out some of her own time to try and talk some sense into him. Hitting or slapping or beating some sense into him sounded much, much better! He had been never one to listen to her anyway, because he considered himself as a more "sophisticated and elegant species," yet to her, he was nothing but an insufferable monster that needed to be taught a lesson or two — or about ten billion, which sounded more precise. He was certainly one of those over-privileged kids that she couldn't help but despise. Then again, he had always been.

But even considering the burdening fact that they had been somewhat distantly acquainted over the past six years and she knew very well how he would react to her little "visit," there was something different about him. For instance, when she had frozen the room during the fight, he had been more sarcastic than hostile towards her, and while that was no surprise, it was still… strange. He no longer called her a Mudblood, which was even more bizarre. Wasn't it his life's goal to make her miserable on a daily basis? (He was doing a good job, by the way, because she honestly wanted to kill him.) Or had he just forgotten the rotten word, just out of the blue like that? Even so, the idea seemed unlikely.

Hermione shook her head.

"I am _such_ a daft twit," she grumbled to herself. _"Stupid, stupid, stupid…"_

When the hospital wing's doors came into view, she sucked in a breath but tried to shake away the stiffness and nervousness of her body. Her mind was scurrying rapidly with those thoughts again, and she could only swear at herself for it. She pulled at the doors slightly and quietly slipped inside. The room was dark, absent of any lights except those from the moonlight streaming from one of the narrow windows hovering above the beds. She looked around warily and saw that the bed Ernie had once occupied was empty.

She took tiny and slow steps, looking at the beds. It was awfully dark and her eyes still had to go through the process of getting used to the sudden dimness. She squinted.

"Malfoy?" she whispered. "Malfoy? Are you awake? _Malfoy?_"

She looked to the bed she had last seen him occupy, and luckily enough, he was there. She felt her heart skip a beat but ignored it and instead focused on trying to rid of the sudden dryness in her mouth. She stood at the foot of his bed, seeing the tufts of his pale-blond hair peeking out from the sheets and covers.

"Malfoy?" she whispered again, this time louder. He didn't budge. "_Malfoy?"_ she whispered harshly, gripping the metal bars at the end of his bed, refusing the urge to grab a bedpan (surprisingly and quite disgustingly, the hospital wing still had a few of those lying around) and smacking him with it. "Malfoy, damn it, I know you're awake, so you can _knock_ it off!" she barked at him in a stern whisper.

He still didn't move.

"_Malfoy!"_

"Have I gone mad?" she suddenly heard him say, his head suddenly twitching. "Granger?" he said hoarsely, his body shifting underneath the white covers. "Is that you?"

Hermione scowled at him, tightening her hold on the cold, metal bars.

"No, you aren't mad." Though she begged to disagree. "Malfoy, I know you heard me," she whispered, annoyed. She watched him as he pulled down the covers, and she found him squinting at her.

"I know. I was just hoping that if I stayed still and ignored you long enough you'd go away and leave me alone."

Hermione scoffed.

She heard him let out a sigh, yawning. "Well, what are you waiting for? Come over here and say what you have to say, Granger. You're going to give me a headache if you insist on whispering. It strains my hearing. And this tonic that old bat gave me isn't helping."

She heard scorn in his voice.

"Serves her right to get it spit in her face," she heard him mumble.

Hermione sighed irritably, feeling a bit nervous at his request. Clearly, the last thing she wanted to do was get close to _him_! And in the _dark_! Who knows what he'd do to her! They might have to perform an exorcism on her in the morning!

But she didn't want to talk any louder, considering that she knew very well that Madam Pomfrey had frighteningly sharp ears like a bat. She didn't want the uptight nurse catching her here and throwing her out – or, worse, suspecting something. So, Hermione, feeling cautious, briskly walked over to his side, pulled up a chair, and sat down.

Draco turned his head towards her, feeling a nonsensical tug in his stomach he hadn't remembered to be there before – but, then again, he had fallen asleep, so he could not really be so sure. But he was certain he'd never seen her in this light before; dim darkness with the soft moonlight shadowing one side of her face. He could see her wavy hair pulled into a haste ponytail, and he noticed the jacket she was wearing, the one that she had been wearing at their only private meeting about the newspaper… the fairly Muggle one. He saw her eyes flicker with curiosity, and that was when he knew that it was too odd for him to be quiet like this.

"Well," he said to her, his voice still hoarse because of the potion Madam Pomfrey made him drink that he was pretty sure had torched his vocal cords. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit to, Granger? Come here to tell me more about how much of a bastard I am? Or are you here to admit that I am ridiculously good-looking and that you're madly in love with me?"

Hermione gasped, but quickly realized that he was kidding and let out her breath silently.

_Damn_ Draco Malfoy. Why did she let him get him to her so easily?

"Right. Okay then, Malfoy, after you're done inflating your already obnoxiously large head and ego, I'd like to talk to you in terms of a civilized conversation that does not involve any insults or ill-meaning remarks. And, you _are_ a bastard, and I hope you don't forget it."

Draco snorted. "What happened to 'not involve any insults or ill-meaning remarks,' Granger? It can only work both ways. That wasn't very nice."

Hermione sighed. "Fine. All right, that starts _now_."

Draco looked up at her. "And what was so _dire_ and important that you had to come in and wake me up for, then? Did Blaise fling himself off the balcony? Excellent." He smiled to himself. "That's the most splendid news I've heard in months."

"Malfoy, be serious, please? I was dragged here against my will and I'm not in the mood for a reenactment of what happened earlier in here, so I'm going to have to ask you to play along so I can get to bed. Away from _you_."

"Well, that's nice," he said dryly. "But, 'dragged here against your will'? By who, may I ask, oh sickeningly noble one?"

"Dumbledore," she replied, finding that she couldn't help the bitterness in her voice.

"A-hah," Draco said, chuckling. "Not so fond of the old kook, are you now?"

Hermione shook her head, dismissing it. "No, just listen, Malfoy. He owled me and he told me to tell you that you're standing on very dangerous ground. You have a warning, and if you go any further, you'll be suspended or you'll be looking at a new Head Boy."

Draco rolled his eyes. "That's ridiculous, Granger."

"No, no it's _not_!" she whispered to him. "He's bloody _serious_, Malfoy!"

"Not _that_, you basketcase," he snapped. "I already knew all that. I'm not stupid, you know. I know what the consequences are and all that rubbish."

Hermione leaned back into her chair, looking at him disapprovingly. "Right. I _totally_ forgot how clever you are," she said sarcastically. "I mean, it isn't like you hadn't thought this through before you went into bloody World War III with Blaise and Ernie."

Draco snorted. But as he was just looking at her, his head nestled by the warm pillow, they lapsed into a startling silence. It really was a wonder how he could look at her now and not be so disgusted. In fact, – and he excused this thought as one of the mad effects of Madam Pomfrey's dangerous tonics – she actually… looked sort of pretty.

Hermione looked down at him, seeing the way he was so quiet and his eyes were on her, and she shifted uneasily and awkwardly under his gaze. She'd experienced this before, when he would just stare at her in an odd way, not in a hateful and cold manner like she was so used to. It was as if he was contemplating deeply about her… which almost made her want to run out of the room in fear. She didn't know why it frightened her; maybe because she thought that he was contemplating deeply about her _death_ or how to kill her, but it made her nervous, and it made something squirm inside her, sending quivers down her spine. She wasn't used to seeing him and feeling him… look at her _that_ way. And, now, she wasn't sure she wanted him to. It was just too… odd. Even on the side of creepy.

Not to forget the sensations that rocketed up her body when he did. Merlin, what _was_ that?

"Can I ask you something?" she said to break the silence and for reason that she was truly curious. It made something flutter inside her the way his hair fell so casually across his eyes and the fact that she wanted so badly to sweep it back. But, catching herself, she mentally sought to strangle herself.

Honestly, what was _wrong_ with her?

He didn't answer, discreetly entranced in the Gryffindor girl, and she took that as a yes. Or he just didn't care. Either way, it permitted her to go on.

"Do you know… where Professor Snape is when… well, Dumbledore brought this up in the letter, and I was curious… not that I care, of course… well, I do, actually, but not in that way, it's just because he's a professor here and I wouldn't want anything to happen to any of the staff members—"

"Bloody _hell_, Granger, just get on with it, would you?" he said to her, getting quite impatient. He immediately regretted his tone as Hermione glared at him, but he told himself that he couldn't help it. It was a bloody reflex. For Merlin's sakes, he was impatient with _everyone_! Like he'd make an exception for _her_!

Hermione cleared her throat and finally said what she had to say. "He's been absent from some of the Potions classes, and I was wondering if you knew… where he was," she said uncertainly.

Draco chortled. "How the hell should I know?" he said, amused at her question. "His business is his business. I wouldn't want to get involved."

But Hermione caught him as something flashed in his eyes, making her suspicious.

"Probably out buying more shampoo," he muttered to himself. "Merlin knows he needs it terribly. And probably the special kind, too. With the medicated serums and herbs mixed inside it."

"Right," she sighed. "Okay then."

She knew he wasn't telling the truth and that he was just using his cynical humor to cover it all up, but she didn't bother to ask. She didn't think it could be that serious if he'd just cover it up with some ridiculous insult to his own Head of House… and if it _were_ really serious, he'd have told her to sod off straight away. Of course, that would be going to the terms of bastard Draco Malfoy, not strangely-odd-but-still-a-bastard Draco Malfoy, who, by the way, was fairly unpredictable towards her nowadays. And she didn't know which was worse: the predictable Malfoy or the _un_predictable one. She'd come to despise both very much. It was a really tough one to call.

"Why do you ask? Do you fancy him?" he asked, amusement still in his voice.

Hermione shook her head furiously. "_No_!" she exclaimed suddenly, surprised at why he would ask such a question. She let out another short sigh before she swallowed and got back to whispering. "No, of course not."

Draco's question suddenly made him feel absolutely sick, seeing her and his Head of House together… he shuddered. He knew better than to ask any more questions about that matter. He'd have horrible nightmares for weeks.

"Disgusting," he said to himself, cringing at the sight of her and Snape together.

"Sorry?" Hermione asked, hearing what he had said. "What's disgusting?"

Draco stared blankly at her, and then cursed mentally at himself, realizing that she had heard him.

"Harry Potter," he answered quickly, being that that was the first thing he could come up with.

Hermione frowned, looking down at him disapprovingly.

Draco found that irritating and oddly disturbing. And so, in a panicked attempt, his mouth automatically spat out another of his maliciously meant quips. "Granger," he barked at her. "Stop. I don't want nightmares tonight. I actually want to _live_ to see the morning, you know."

Hermione just stared at him in her usual perturbed manner before glancing elsewhere. He couldn't tell, but it seemed that she was more offended than she regularly would have been, which undoubtedly brought him great joy, but there was also a bothersome knot in his stomach that threatened to rain on his parade.

She swallowed, staring up at the window hovering above his bed.

She was remembering how much of a prick he was. Not that she needed to remember. But she just had to remind herself sometimes, because her mind got carried away with its foolishness, and she discovered she quite liked it when he was the one who did the reminding for her.

But, she also hated it. A lot.

Draco watched her.

What the _hell_ was God thinking? This was all some very disturbing bet between God and the Devil, wasn't it? It was some sick and twisted game. Making him… _feel_ like this for _Hermione Granger_. And – so what if she was smart, kind and in some bizarre way, awfully pretty? So what if she made him nervous and made his heart race like so? That couldn't possibly mean a thing, could it? Well, beside the fact that this was all a game between God and Satan, and the angels wanting to have some fun.

He didn't think they'd really thought this through. They were gambling with people's lives here. Oh, and their sanities, too.

_Stop thinking about her, git.  
_

But to Draco's great misfortune and disappointment, he couldn't. And in his opinion, it wasn't his fault he couldn't tear his eyes away from her, or the fact that having her so close made his heart flutter ecstatically. And it was not his fault that she smelled like fragrant flowers and lavenders… and that he rather liked that smell. Why couldn't she just go away and leave him be? Why did she have to stay here and look so… so _nice_-looking? Why? Out of all the witches in the wizarding world, why did it have to be Hermione Granger?

He was cursed. Really cursed. Probably all Lucius' doing, too.

Hermione looked down at her hands and let out a silent breath before looking back at him. He was still looking at her, but his eyebrows were furrowed and it was as if he was deep in thought of something.

"I'm going to go," she finally said aloud, but still in a whisper. Her voice was quiet and strangely enough, that was enough to throw Draco off of his rather convicting train of thought. He watched her get up, looking uncertainly down at him. "After all, I don't want to give you nightmares," she told him in a very Hermione Granger-esque way. "Though you deserve it more than anyone on this earth, I'll spare you."

Draco almost caught himself looking imploringly at her, feeling the shocking rowdiness of his heart. He didn't really want her to stay… did he? He had wanted her to finally get the hint that he didn't want her here so that she would finally leave, but… he found a small – very small, tiny, in fact, and maybe even microscopic – part of himself wanting her to stay, against every bit of his logic and reason.

She gave him one last look, one very vague but indifferent from all of the looks she had sent to him before, before starting to walk away. Draco felt as if he had something in his throat, as if he had something to say, something to call out to her to make her stop, but he only bit it down for the sake of himself and watched her leave in silence.

There was a peculiar feeling leaping around in his stomach after he heard the doors close and knowing once again that he was very alone in the room. But he had always been very alone, so it shouldn't have made such a difference. But she had been here… and it somehow made the empty room feel so much different, so much colder. There was just something about her… something about her that made him feel… like _this_. Something he couldn't explain, something so fuzzy and incongruent that it rather irritated him, fascinated him, and frightened him all at the same time.

He raised his awkwardly heavy hand — the effects of Madam Pomfrey's painkilling potions — and swept his hair back from his eyes. He stared out into the darkness of the room, embracing the lack of warmth and welcoming voices. He had become so used to this. The manor had always been cold and empty of any love or care, and it had always been oddly uninviting, but it had always been home to him. He had known nothing else. But who else would suddenly come around and change everything he knew and had felt to be normal but Hermione Granger?

"_Bloody_ Gryffindors," he groaned to himself.

He hated to admit it, but it was there, and it affected him like it was some sort of disease, and to be honest, he wouldn't be surprised if it was, in fact, a disease. It was certainly an abnormality, for there was a bizarre warmth in her eyes, and in her voice, as well. She had spirit and compassion. She wasn't afraid to stand up for herself; she wasn't afraid to speak out on her values and bloody morals, as dull as they were. She was indeed noble and gallant, sometimes so much that it irritated him like so to see someone so good and kind. In all of his life, he had never come across anyone like Hermione Granger. He wondered if that was a good thing or a rather terrible one.

And, in the spirit of his anomalous thoughts, he asked himself what was to happen to her innocence and wholesome heart once she was to step out into the cold, callous reality that he had known all of his life. Would she break down? Would _they_ break her down? Would they shatter her heart and walk all over her morals and goodness? Would they take advantage of her kindness and cleverness? Would they despise her for whom she was? Or would she cower away and hide?

The world was cruel and it didn't care for girls like her. Innocent ones were always broken and the clever ones became hungry for power and glory. He knew she wasn't like that at all, but how would she survive? Deceit, lies, greed, and betrayal were the only substance in the business of the wizarding world. Who would she be when they finished her off? Would she become bitter and angry, or would she become overly frail and numb? Would she still be the gallant and noble Hermione Granger he once knew?

Draco muttered to himself indistinctly, turning and shivering slightly in the hospital wing's covers.

"Damn Granger," he mumbled, and he closed his eyes, shivering.


	14. Mistletoe in February

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own Harry Potter. You can check back later, but then I still highly doubt anything will have changed then.

**Mistletoe in February**

The next day, Hermione did her best to keep herself busy and thankfully, it didn't take very much effort. She scheduled a meet-up with the staff of the Harmonium and the prefects — _without_ the battered three — and luckily the meeting had been rather pleasant. She hadn't notified Draco, Blaise, or Ernie, for fear that if they were indeed again in the same room they would finish what was left of World War III. She had felt guilty at first (she really hated her moral standing when it came to these things), but she knew it was urgent that they get everything done. And if Blaise and Draco, now throwing Ernie into the lot, were going to spend their time lunging at each other's throats again she knew they would get the exact number of nothing done and that was certainly not a good thing.

The prefects had complained a bit, considering that Draco was indeed the Head Boy, but when she explained her reason, they became silent. They quietly agreed. So after that had been cleared out of the way she clarified the rules, duties, responsibilities, and consequences to the staff.

What followed that was the hardest part. She had to present the columns and pieces of the Harmonium. Surprisingly, the staff members had other things in mind. They already knew what they wanted.

The room was soon filled with shouts and yells, and a surprised Hermione had to quiet them down.

"One at a time!" she shouted above the raucous. "Please, one at a time! _Quiet down_!"

The room silenced, and she sighed heavily. "Thank you. First I have to ask you how you know what the features of the paper are," she said aloud, curiously.

Everyone turned and pointed to Ginny, and Ginny blushed.

Hermione smiled, shaking her head.

"Sorry," Ginny bashfully said to her. "I couldn't help it."

Hermione grinned at her, actually grateful. "Don't be. You've made things easier."

Ginny beamed with pride.

"Right. All right then. Let's start with you, Colin, and then on to Lisa. You, of course, are going to be our official photographer, is that right? Or are you interested in any other positions?"

Colin shook his head, his camera on his lap.

"Photographer it is," Hermione smiled. "Good to have you on board, Colin. I hope you present to us some splendid photos."

Colin grinned, flushing slightly pink, never having done anything as professional and serious as this before.

Hermione turned to Lisa Turpin, a lovely brown-haired Ravenclaw. "Wizarding World Events," she called out. "I'm very good with factual things, and I have great interest in what's happening outside of Hogwarts."

Hermione nodded, grateful to have someone like her who was interested in more things than whom is dating whom in Hogwarts. "That's excellent," said Hermione. "Great to have you, Lisa."

Lisa nodded, giving her a wide smile.

And so it went on. By the end of the meeting, everyone was indeed content with their position and job from the beaming looks on their faces.

Lavender and Parvati requested to work together as Hogwarts' gossip columnists, and while Hermione was hesitant to even have gossip as a feature, she said yes for she knew the staff was too few and that she couldn't lose them. Ginny Weasley was "Dear Anny…", the anonymous advice giver for students in dilemmas and in need of help. Dean Thomas was in charge of the front page, the Hogwarts Main Events, but to Hermione's surprise… no one had claimed one of the most anticipated and important feature: the Quidditch page.

Hermione was indeed baffled. Everyone loved Quidditch. With the exception of her, certainly, but everyone she had come across in Hogwarts had been a rabid Quidditch fan. She looked up at the satisfied staff members who were chatting lightly amongst themselves, confused.

'_What? There's got to be some mistake…'_

She called their attention and they all turned to her, curious. She looked at each of them, puzzled at the outcome.

"Am I mistaken, or… has no one claimed the Quidditch page?" she asked, mystification in her voice.

The room was silent as the members turned to look at each other.

"_No one_?" she asked again, after the answer had become quiet clear. "Well," she sighed, looking down at her notes, "I suppose that's a no. I just don't understand… there's got to be…" she flipped over her parchments, but no one had applied for it.

She looked up again. "Would anyone like to?" she asked.

There was silence as everyone looked away.

"I suppose that's _also_ a no," she said to herself. "Now…" She read over her notes and found another blank spot.

'_Editor: '_

Hermione swallowed hard as she watched every one of them.

"How about the editor's chair?" she asked them, her voice seeming to echo in the dead silent room. "Would anyone like to claim that seat?"

She hoped that someone would… she didn't know if she could handle having a stack of reports every week along with her assignments, extra-credit assignments, and Head Duties. And also having to manage every staff and prefect meeting….

'_Oh Merlin,_' she groaned mentally as the dreadful silence ensued. '_I'm stuck with the bloody job.'_

She decided she would have to persuade them into taking it. She thought she could be a fairly good persuader when she was determined.

"You know, the editor's chair is like a throne," she said aloud, trying to make the position sound appealing. "You get to be in charge of all the reports and what gets to go into the paper… It's the most important job. Everyone admires the editor, because they see the editor as a… _strong_ person. In the Muggle world, and even in the wizarding world, everyone _fights_ for the position of the editor. That's how important and bloody excellent it is! Don't you want to be _important_? Don't you want to be _admired_?"

"Does the editor get her own page? Where she could write _anything_?" Parvati asked, interested.

Hermione was silent, unsure what to say. "Um… no." Hermione then saw Parvati shake her head. "_But!"_ Hermione exclaimed, not wanting her attention to waver from the position, "there's more perks! _Better_ perks! You get to get to… to…."

Suddenly, someone spoke up. But not for the matter Hermione had hoped for.

"Whoever thinks Hermione should be the editor, say 'Aye!' " Ginny suddenly shouted, standing up. Hermione halted her words, her eyes wide with horror and her mouth agape as the room was filled with a loud and terrible noise.

"_Aye!"_ everyone shouted, in unison.

"No!" she said. "But I can't—"

"Sorry, Hermione," Ginny smiled at her. "Majority wins, you understand. You're the editor now. But by Merlin, Hermione, you're the only one fit for the job! You'll be the most splendid editor in the history of newspapers!"

Hermione felt dread turn in her stomach.

And so she could only smile so weakly as everyone agreed and congratulated her when all she wanted was to run over to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom and throw up.

oooo

Draco had been released from the hospital wing in the morning, though his body still seemed to be weighed down with the gallons of potions and serums she had forcefully fed him.

He loathed waking up in the blasted hospital wing. First, Madam Pomfrey was the most annoying, fussiest nurse in the entire history of medicine, and the window curtains were never drawn so the bright sunlight would flood into the room, therefore disturbing his peaceful sleep and making him very, very cross. Then, due to his rest being cut by nature's rays, he had snapped at Madam Pomfrey when she had examined him. And, as a consequence, she had purposely shoved the spoon further down his throat than was required, making him sputter and cough non-stop.

Yes, Draco Malfoy was in a very, very foul mood this afternoon.

After sending a defensible glare in the Medi-Witch's way, he had walked out of the hospital wing with a newly found distaste for Hogwarts to add to the rest of the lot. He had gone down straight to his room, taking a nice, relaxing bath before heading back to his bed.

The bath seemed to help… but just a tad bit. He was still irritated at Madam Pomfrey and muttered to himself why Dumbledore hadn't forced her into retirement yet. Of course, Dumbledore was also an insane kook himself, so Draco wouldn't expect their Headmaster to realize the nurse's rude behavior towards the students who were attending this school.

After resting awhile on his silk sheets and rubbing his throat in an attempt to soothe it from Madam Pomfrey's very dangerous spooning and the foul tasting, bile, and acidic tonic, he decided to work on his assignments.

Draco did not do his assignments three weeks before it was due, unlike their basketcase Head Girl. He got his assignments – even those dreadful three rolls of parchments essays and reports – done at a fairly quick time. So assignments were never a problem for the smart Slytherin. But he couldn't deny that he hadn't done an assignment three weeks before the due date. In this imprisoning castle, he had encountered boredom one too many times… assignments were a cure, every now and then.

But after finishing all of his assignments and double-checking them for any miscalculations or misspellings, he began to feel a strange air about him. Something didn't seem right.

Draco looked up, his brows furrowed, curious and suspicious. He placed his quill back on the stand and he stood, walking over to his door. He turned the knob and slowly stepped into the common room, firmly closing the door behind him. He looked around, not exactly knowing what he was looking for, but his instinct was telling him something very fishy was going on. He walked across the common room and found himself standing in front of the Head Girl's room. He stared at the door, puzzled.

He raised his hand to knock, but hesitated. But as he tried to convince himself nothing was going on… there was still that very bothersome squirming inside of him that told him otherwise.

Finally, he knocked. He knocked twice, his knuckles rapping against the wooden surface of the door, his knocks loud and strong. There was no answer. He knocked again, but there was still nothing.

"Granger?" he said to the door. "Are you in there? Granger?"

He listened for a sound, any sound. But there were no trudging footsteps, rustling of papers or… anything. He knocked again, this time longer and harder. "Granger?" he said very impatiently to the door. "I demand that you open this blasted door at once!"

After that, it was very clear that she wasn't there. Though he had treated her very rudely last night, he didn't think that was enough of a reason to avoid him. After all, she was a very headstrong and cheeky sort of girl and he didn't think it was in her character to avoid him for one small, little remark. Hexing was more her type.

Draco immediately thought that she was in the library and turned to head back to his room, but there was still that tugging feeling inside him that insisted he go check. There was a voice ringing out in his head that there was something going on. Draco rejected it at first, saying that he had better things to do… but the awful truth was: he didn't. Sighing and very aggravated, Draco went back to his room to change into clean garments, then grabbed his wand and heading out to the library to find the Head Girl.

Once he reached the library, he entered the doors and searched for her. But alas, she was nowhere to be found. He even checked the very ends of the library where he knew she liked to be when there was a rather large amount of students inhabiting the library when big projects were assigned, but all he found were two Hufflepuffs passionately snogging against the Abandoned Books shelf.

Draco threw a disgusted look at them, glaring.

The two students stopped, staring at him with wide eyes.

"This is a library," he barked at them. "I suggest you two get a private room and therefore innocent bystanders such as myself would not see such a horrible exhibit… and ugh, fifteen points from Hufflepuff. Now get out before the urge of gouging my eyes out gets frighteningly large."

The two Hufflepuffs glared at him, but did as he said.

Draco shuddered, swearing and condemning the Hufflepuff House.

After checking again, Draco was terribly annoyed and decided to just leave and go back to the solitude of his wealth-decorated room. But as he had just stepped out from the library, he saw a group of people walking towards him from the direction of the Meeting Room. Draco's eyes narrowed with realization as he approached them, and to his great surprise, he recognized each and every one of them to be prefects or an individual from the Harmonium's staff.

He grabbed Alexandra Blythe and pulled her aside, his mind slowly putting all the pieces together.

The startled Slytherin looked at him with wide and alarmed blue eyes.

"You," he hissed. "Tell me, where did you just come from?"

"The-the Meeting Room," she stammered, obviously surprised and frightened.

Draco felt his anger boil inside him, another piece fitting directly into the puzzle. "Who was there?" he barked at her.

"The prefects and the staff," she said. "And Granger, the Head Girl."

"When did she notify you?"

"This morning," she replied shakily.

He glared at her though his anger was not targeted at her. He let go of her, and she looked at him curiously before he spoke again. "Did she say where she was going after the meeting?"

"I heard her and that Weasley girl talking about studying in her room," she replied.

And without another glance, Draco let go off her and bolted down the corridor.

"Damn you, Granger!" he said angrily under his breath as he ran to the Heads rooms. His longs legs give him a quick pace, and his anger fueled him to go even faster.

oooo

Hermione entered their common room and headed to her door. She said the password and walked in with Ginny following behind her. Once Hermione heard the door close, she turned to the youngest Weasley, a scowl on her face and irritation glittering like fire-bred jewels in her eyes.

"Why would you do that to me, Ginny, why?" she suddenly asked her, her voice rising.

Ginny looked at her, surprised. "I was helping you!" she finally replied.

"Helping me?" Hermione scoffed. "I don't want to be the editor, Ginny! I don't want to _be_ the editor!" she exploded.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Hermione, we all know you always want to be in charge of everything," Ginny told her. "I just thought… it would… fit," she said hesitantly as her friend glowered at her.

"What are you saying?" Hermione said lowly.

"What I'm saying is that you like being able to be the one to say what goes and what stays, and you're bloody good at it too!"

"Flattery will not get you anywhere," Hermione dangerously said to her.

"I know," said Ginny. "It's just the truth. You _can_ be editor, Hermione. It's in your nature. You're perfect for the job!"

"But I don't want to be editor!" Hermione repeated. "I can't be editor, Ginny! I've got Head Duties, and—"

"That's ridiculous, Hermione," said Ginny, waving her hand to dismiss it.

But as Hermione opened her mouth to retaliate, there was a thunderous knocking at their door… along with a very, very angry voice on the other side.

oooo

Draco hastily said the password for the common room before he ran in, fuming. He stopped at her door, banging his fist against the wooden surface.

oooo

"Granger, you open this bloody door!" the voice angrily shouted, still knocking fiercely on her door.

Hermione jumped and Ginny turned towards her door, shocked, with confusion clearly written across their faces.

"Damn it, Granger, you open this door this bloody instant! Or I _will_ knock it down, I swear it! Open this bloody—"

Hermione urgently opened the door and found herself facing an enraged Draco Malfoy. His eyes glimmered like dark steel, and his mouth was warped into a mean scowl.

He looked like one very angry Veela.

"What is it, Malfoy?" she asked him, also quite angry. First Ginny, now him. What was wrong with the bloody world? Did it not want to give her a rest? Was today Twist Hermione Granger's Knickers Day? Well, _was_ it?

"'What is it'?" he shouted at her. "I think you bloody know what in the damned hell it is, Granger!" his voice boomed. "I'm Head Boy! _Head Boy_! Do you know what that means? It means I _attend_ the Head meetings! It means I am to be bloody notified when there is to be one held! It means that the damn Head Girl is not to be going around behind my back, passing out the notification letters!"

Hermione glared at him, tightly crossing her arms against her chest. "Look, Malfoy, this isn't the best time for this, so if you could please kindly leave, I have other things to deal with at the moment, and right now, it doesn't involve you, so just step away—" Hermione tried to close the door, but Draco stopped her, strongly forcing it back.

Hermione was quite perturbed by his aggressiveness.

"No, Granger, there will be _no_ other time, and we will deal with this _now_," he snarled.

Hermione scowled, certainly not in the mood to deal with an enraged Draco Malfoy. "Malfoy, you can't just walk over here and bang the bloody substance out of my door—"

"I don't care about the sodding door!" he shouted at her, livid. "What I want is an explanation. And I want it _now_."

"Fine," she huffed. "You want to know why I didn't notify you? Because you're a temperamental wanker who can't keep his cynical humor to himself and sooner or later, you're going to kill your bloody self and about _ten_ other people parading around your special beliefs and physically fighting with anyone who dares to make you stop! We've got things to get _done_, and that can't happen because you're always trying to provoke Blaise into attempting to tackle and strangle you—"

"That's a whole lot of rubbish!" he shouted at her, "and you know it!"

"No, I don't!" she screeched back at him. "And no, it's not a whole lot of rubbish, Draco! I was afraid that you, Blaise, and Ernie were going to start fighting again! Don't you have any _dignity_?"

"Oh, come off it, Granger!" he yelled at her.

Ginny watched the two, intrigued. First of all, Hermione had said Malfoy's first name _to his face_ and it didn't seem like she had realized it yet… either that, or she had already been doing that very often. (Which was _intriguing_.) Second, there was so much heat between them that it was almost making _her_ sweat. And third, she knew that when it involved these two, neither would ever back down, so they would and could take forever if she didn't do something.

And so, she began to devise a plan.

"For your information, _Draco Malfoy_, I didn't notify Blaise and Ernie, either!"

"Oh, I feel so much better!" he spat.

"You know, it's your fault you got yourself into the hospital wing in the first place! You're the one who started the bloody fight! Everyone says so!"

"So you'd believe their word over mine? Seems to me you've got some trust issues, Granger!"

"Trust?" she shouted incredulously. "Trust? Are we onto that now? What's trust when it comes to Slytherins?"

"We're stumbling across this topic again, are we?" he bellowed back at her. "You Gryffindors are so narrow-minded! First, you admit that you were wrong to judge the Slytherin House from our reputation, and then you call me by my first name and you deny it, and now we're back to square one! Spilling out your bloody bigotry! And this from noble Granger! The perfect, virgin Head Girl!"

"Oh shut up! You know you're just like us! You've got humungous _mental_ issues with the Hufflepuff House, not to mention Gryffindor! You are such a hypocrite!"

"You insufferable Know-it-all!" he accused her. "You don't even belong here, Mudblood!"

"At least I didn't buy myself into this school, Pure-blood Prick!"

"And what makes you think I did? Are you going around soaking in all those ridiculous rumors? And here I thought you were actually smart!"

"You are such a loathsome, wanky excuse of a wizard!"

"Like you're any better of a witch!"

"Sod off, Draco!"

"Don't call me 'Draco'!" he yelled at her, irately frustrated at how she kept calling him by his first name. What was her problem? What was _his_ problem? Her calling him anything besides his surname (or something else, like, "prick," or "git," or "bastard") sent his mind off track and distracted him far too easily, and that was not supposed to be, at all! But hadn't he already told her _not_ to call him that? Hadn't he told her that it would be a sign of chumminess, and that they _weren't chummy at all_? So why did she have to keep calling him by his blasted first name? And why did it sound so good? She was a _Mudblood_, remember? She was so shrill and infuriating!

"I didn't!" she yelled back.

"You did so, Granger!"

"No, I _didn't_!"

"Bloody _hell_!" he roared, feeling his anger and frustration boiling so hotly. He was starting to feel a pulsing headache start to form at the side of his skull. "Why do you have to be so difficult?"

Ginny brightened suddenly as she thought of a plan. She took out her wand and whispered a spell, pointing it to the top of the doorway. She knew they wouldn't notice, what with all their angry yelling. Come to think of it, it was quite adorable, in an old couple-ish sort of way. But, nevertheless, she could feel her ears starting to ring from their thunderous raucous, and for fear that their screaming would permanently damage her hearing, she knew she had to stop this. She'd had enough. She couldn't bear to see two people who were obviously meant to be together fight like this.

She whispered another spell, pointing her wand towards Hermione's feet.

She then lowered her wand, hiding it behind her back so that they would not suspect anything — not that they would, anyway. She was sure that they were perfectly focused on trying to shout at each other until their ears started to bleed.

Finally, she cleared her throat, hoping that her very devious and sneaky plan would work.

"Hermione!" she shouted loudly. "Hermione!"

"Not now, Ginny!" she shouted absentmindedly, still in a heated argument with the Slytherin Head Boy.

"But Hermione! _Hermione_! I've got to tell you something!"

"I _said_, not now!"

Ginny sighed, getting very impatient. "Malfoy! Hermione! Malfoy! Her—"

"_What_?" both Hermione and Draco shouted in unison, their heads snapping in the direction of the fiery-haired Weasley. The pair of them glared at her and she knew that she had to get this done as soon as possible. "What is it?"

"Look up," Ginny simply said.

Pure confusion flashed across both Hermione's and Draco's faces.

"What?" they asked again, not sure if they understood her.

"I said, _look up_."

And they did, with Ginny smiling ever so mischievously behind them.

To both Hermione and Draco's horror and surprise, there was a small gather of familiar green leaves at the very top of the doorway.

"Is that… mistletoe?" asked Hermione, now with just a hint of anger in her voice and just purely puzzled and perplexed. The purpose of mistletoe hadn't dawned on her just yet, nor had it dawned on Draco. Obviously. She knew that if they had, they would've drawn their wands by now and had started to hurl hexes at her like it was Christmas — except with curses instead of gifts and greetings of the holidays.

A very abundant amount of curses.

"What sort of idiot would put up mistletoe in the middle of February—" Draco started, annoyed by the little green thing hanging from the doorway.

But Ginny cut him off, now intolerant of any more conversation.

"It doesn't matter," she said irritably in a hurried voice as she swished her wand. She did this very quickly so that they wouldn't realize it until it had already been done.

Hermione's eyes widened as she suddenly found herself levitating from the ground, floating above the floor, letting out a short squeal of fright. Ginny stopped her immediately as Hermione reached Draco's height, when she then took it into her own hands and forcefully pushed her forwards, where Hermione crashed into Draco…

…And, thus, only under fate and very lucky circumstances, a kiss transpired.

* * *

**A/N: FOLKS, REVIEW!**


	15. Totally and Purposely Accidental

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: I promise I don't own Harry Potter. I also promise I did not break your mother's very expensive vase she had custom-made in India.

**Totally And Purposely Accidental**

Draco, startled to see her rising up like so, didn't know what to do.

It all seemed to happen so fast in his eyes, like an indescribable blur that he couldn't remember at a certain detailed pace even if he tried. His shocked gaze flickered down to her feet all in a millisecond and saw her sneaker-ed feet hovering inches from the ground, and when he looked back up, she was about his height, her face just an inch from his. He could feel his heartbeats thundering at how close he suddenly realized they were, and the bubbling, intoxicating anger was instantly flushed from his body by a frighteningly different sensation.

And as his wide steely silver eyes locked with her cinnamon brown orbs, he felt something tighten around his throat. In less than a second, he heard a high-pitched and short shriek fill his ears as he saw her suddenly move towards him, and as a reflex he held his arms out to try and catch and steady her. But instead…

He felt something warm and moist crash against his lips.

Something warm and soft collided against him and he impulsively wrapped his arms around her. Startled and alarmed, his body gave way from shock and he fell backwards with her in his arms.

He let out a surprised yell as he felt his body fall backwards onto the very hard floor. His face distorted in pain, feeling pain shoot up from his back and bones, he groaned. He opened his eyes, his arms wrapped tightly against a warm bundle and his legs entangled with something, and he would've gasped if he could if he wasn't in so much pain. However, it did sort of feel good…

He let out a small and pained sigh, slightly terrified as he realized just whom it was that he was holding. He recognized the smell and the rather petite body. However, though it dawned on him that it was Hermione Granger he was clutching very close to his chest and had accidentally kissed — yes, he had caught that moist feeling against his lips — he didn't let go of her, for it seemed as if she was about to get a heart attack.

He could feel her breathing unusually hard and fast against his neck, and was that her heartbeat… or was it his? Or was it theirs combined? Because he too felt as if he was approaching a heart attack.

This was utterly disturbing. She wasn't moving, and therefore _he_ couldn't move. And why did she have to smell so pleasantly? Why did it feel so good holding her?

Why was this _happening_ to him?

He knew he had to do something. This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all. He could still feel his lips burning from their kiss even though it had been mere and indeed very short, not to mention accidental, and he couldn't stop thinking about how soft she felt and how velvet-like her lips had been against his. But how was that even possible? They'd kissed – not even for an appropriate millisecond! How on _earth_ could he have remembered how her lips had felt?

"Bloody _hell_, Granger," he grunted, trying to make the pain wash over his bothersome thoughts. He tried to remember that he had been very, very furious with her for doing what she had done to him, but it just didn't help at all that she still wasn't moving and that her fragrant scent was still making him feel rather… odd. He was lightheaded and dizzy. He thought maybe he'd hit his head from the abrupt fall and it had caused the odd swirling happening 'round his skull like it was some potion in a cauldron someone was brewing, but he didn't recall banging his head against the floor. He'd certainly remember the pain if he had – unless it had given him some form of amnesia.

As appealing as the idea was of him getting some brain damage that would prevent him from remembering any of this – Ginny Weasley and her cunning, wicked ways with mistletoe, Granger's lips, these odd sensations – sadly, he didn't think he did obtain a loss of memory.

"What in Merlin's name—_move_, would you?" he said hoarsely, his mouth achingly dry. Finally, he looked up and scowled at the culprit… the innocent-_looking_ bystander. Oh, how he wanted to rip out those ginger locks of hers.

"Weasley," he barked at Ginny.

Ginny felt like she was practically going to explode with happiness and she was just having a damned hard time hiding it. She was biting down very hard on her lip from smiling.

"Get her _off_ of me, would you?" he coldly demanded to her.

Ginny turned to him and couldn't help but let out a laugh. "It doesn't _look_ like you want her to get off," Ginny remarked. "What with your arms so firmly around her and all."

Draco quickly saw what she was talking about and let go of her immediately. He glowered at Ginny, who was biting her lip in her joy, grinning shamelessly.

"Shut up, Weasley," he harshly snapped at her. "_Don't_ even think it. We all know this is _your _fault, you scheming spaz, so help get her _off_ of me."

"I don't know, Malfoy… you seem like you're quite enjoying yourself and—"

"Weasley…" he said threateningly. "Damn it, Weasley, you get her off of me right _now_!" he yelled. He honestly didn't know what to do when she was still breathing very hard against his neck.

And that he found it quite arousing.

Oh, Lord. He was going to burn in pure-blood hell.

Ginny rolled her eyes, but then grabbed Hermione's arms.

"Fine, but you're going to regret it, Malfoy." Ginny tried to get Hermione to stand up. "Hermione, come on, let's go… up, up…."

And to Draco's surprise and utter relief, her soul had finally seemed to occupy her body once again and she got to moving and getting off of him… very quickly. So quickly she looked as if she was going to fall over again.

She was still panting very heavily as she quickly untangled herself from him, and that's when Draco saw her face. He found himself staring at a very red-faced, flushed, and livid Hermione Granger. She was like a raging bull with her brown curls all disarray and her eyes glittering darkly with a forecast of danger… in fact, it was the sort of thing some men would find strangely attractive. It was like enraged banshee mixed with wicked sex kitten with a bit of dominatrix on the side.

Draco sighed, his head collapsing back, before he got himself to sit up and finally stand again. He couldn't meet her eyes for he there was also a rush of strange sensations going off in his own body that he feared she would see if their gazes locked.

"_You_," said Hermione, seething, turning to Draco.

He rolled his eyes but looked anywhere but her. "_You_, the matter we have discussed - the discussion about the notifications is _over_, all right?"

Draco didn't reply, and seeing that, Hermione turned to Ginny.

"_You_," Hermione said through clenched teeth to Ginny, trying very hard to keep back her anger and frustration. "_You_, I have to talk to you!" And she grabbed Ginny's arm as Ginny yelped in pain, dragging her back like a good hunt into her room.

Hermione, all ruffled and disoriented, grabbed the door handle, glaring at Draco. "_Good day, Malfoy!_" she said angrily and then she slammed the door… so very, _very_ hard and loud that Draco winced. He had thought the whole castle would have collapsed in a heap from the brutal force she had bestowed on the poor door.

Draco stared at her door, scowling irritably.

"Bloody basketcase," he muttered to himself, telling himself that the discussion about the notification owls had been far from over. "I don't even know _why_ she hasn't been sent to St. Mungo's yet. She sure as hell ought to be. She's driving me utterly insane."

Draco sighed, his lips still stinging and her entrancing scent still wafting around him. He ran a hand through his hair before walking to his room, saying his password and slamming the door behind him.

He had his mind set on a very cold shower.

oooo

"_Ginny_," Hermione hissed, "_sit down_."

Ginny sat down on her bed, looking at Hermione curiously, trying to look as innocent as possible. "See, Hermione, I don't think you should have slammed the door so hard," said Ginny, worriedly looking at the door. "You had just been talking to Malfoy about how he had been banging the substance out of—"

"I don't care about the bloody _door_!" Hermione snapped harshly at her. "Just _listen_ to me, Ginny!"

Ginny nodded, looking at her intently. "Fine. I'm listening."

"Look, I know this is all _your_ doing," Hermione said to her, livid. "I know you did-did _that_, Ginny, and it has got to stop before I can no longer refrain from the urge to strangle you, are we understood?"

Ginny rolled her eyes, quickly launching into one of her raves again. "Hermione, didn't you _feel_ it?" She was animated and glowing. "_I_ felt it, and I was only _watching_!"

"Felt _what_, Ginny?" Hermione asked her hysterically, on the brink of her sanity. "Please, tell me – enlighten me! Because I am as _sure_ as hell I didn't feel it!"

"Felt the _sparks_!" Ginny enthusiastically exclaimed. "The _connection_! You're _meant_ to be together, Hermione!"

"Knock it off!" shouted Hermione, feeling niggling shivers from Ginny's words. "There was _no_ connection, _no_ sparks! You're mad, that's what you are, Ginny!"

"No!" Ginny told her. "I'm _not_ mad, I can just _see_ when two people are _meant_ to be _together_!"

"Believe it or not, I think that's some sort of mental illness!"

"I'm _not_ insane, Hermione! I'm telling you, there's _something_ there! _You_ know it too! Stop _denying_ it! I mean, when you kissed him, didn't you feel that _electricity_, that jolting _power_?"

"I didn't _kiss_ him, Ginny! That wasn't even a _kiss_! It was just you and your wicked, evil plan on trying everything to ruin my life and set it on fire—"

"No, Hermione, that part was _fate_! _Pure, absolute fate!_ Sure, I had planned that to happen, but it wasn't like I was certain that you two were _actually_ going to kiss!" Ginny's two hands were motioning very ecstatic gestures, her eyes ablaze and radiantly sparkling. "But you _did_! Isn't that _fantastic_? That means that you two were _really_ destined to kiss! You two really _are_ meant to be together!"

"_What? Fate_?" Hermione scoffed, aggravated and convinced that the young Weasley had really gone and hit herself with some daft-ening spell. "_What_ in Merlin's bloody _name? _Fate? That wasn't _fate_, Ginny Weasley! That was _you_, with your stupid, bloody _plan_ and… _you_! There was _no_ fate involved!"

"Don't you believe in fate, Hermione?" Ginny asked her.

"Yes, I do, but that isn't the _point_! Ginny, I want you stop taking things, blowing it way out of proportion, making it into a totally different matter and then _assuming_ that it's right! It's _not_, Ginny! And you can't know it's _fate_, or destiny, or any of that rubbish!" Hermione let out a sigh, pausing her enraged lecture, as Ginny looked at her with a hurt expression.

"Look, Hermione," Ginny objected, her mouth twisted into a scowl. "I am _tired_ of you always saying that I'm mad, or that I'm wrong. I'm _not_. And sooner or later, I'm sure you'll find that out. Because I bet you three Galleons that I _am_ right, and I expect to _have_ it when you realize that you _are_, in fact, in _love_ with Draco Malfoy." Ginny then stood up, giving her a fierce look.

"Good_bye_, Hermione," Ginny harshly told her, before stomping over to the door, opening it, and then slamming it behind her, her nose in the air.

oooo

Valentine's Day was at the end of the week, and everyone was hyped up and twinkle-eyed for the special love-adorned holiday. Everyone, that is, except Hermione and the grim Draco Malfoy, which, in his case, was not such a surprise. He had never been a fan of the holiday – or love, for the matter, and he hated cupid and anything that involved singing valentines. He found the holiday rather irritating, though there had been a perk over the past years that included an accident between a singing valentine and Harry Potter. A mauling, if he recalled correctly.

Meanwhile, Hermione found herself in a gloomy situation. Ginny wasn't talking to her, and Harry was still pestering her about attending their Quidditch practice since she had forgotten to go last week. That matter had been so easy to forget when, in a list of all her disturbing troubles – One: one of her best friends clearly hated her and was ignoring her; two: she had kissed Draco Malfoy, which brought her onto number three: how was she ever to face him again? Four: they had to have the first issue of the Hogwarts Harmonium by the week after; and five: her mind was still giving her bothersome thoughts about being in love with Draco Malfoy. . . . which, she was definitely not. Definitely.

Hermione quietly ate her breakfast beside Harry and Ron. Ginny had taken a seat by Seamus at the far end of the table, and Lavender and Parvati were chippering on again about some grotesque love affair, who had taken the seats across from her. Ron and Harry were busying themselves with talk of Quidditch and future matches again while her mind had zoned out from exhaustion and her demanding thoughts.

She hadn't gotten any sleep through the whole weekend. She had nightmares of the newspaper failing and seeing that look of disappointment Professor Dumbledore and the other professors would give her, mentally calling her a complete failure, and also the worst nightmare of all: kissing Draco Malfoy.

All right. Call her a liar if you want, but she had never wanted to kiss Draco Malfoy. Sure, she had been curious when Parvati and Lavender would converse in front of her about who would be the best kisser in Hogwarts… but that had been just a twinge. She had never really wanted to find out, most especially experience it for _herself_. Besides, it hadn't even been an _actual_ kiss. It was more like… his mouth pressing against hers for half a millisecond. It was nothing special. It was nothing even worth calling a kiss.

So then why was it bothering her so bloody much? Why did it feel like her heart was trying to leap out of her ribcage whenever she thought of it?

Why did it have to be Draco Malfoy? She would have taken _Neville _instead, for heaven's sake!

But whenever she had those dreams, one of her thoughts would always drift off to Ginny and what she had said to her the night before:

"…When you kissed him, didn't you feel that _electricity_, that jolting _power_?"

The truth was, Hermione had been too angry, too flustered, too embarrassed and too frustrated to have admitted it to Ginny at that moment. She had been overwhelmed, and even minutes after she had slammed the door in Draco Malfoy's face, her heart had still felt like it was preparing to rocket out of her chest. Her skin had burned, her lips had tingled, and she had been trying everything in her power to calm down her hard breathing.

But now that she thought about it… why would she have been breathing so fast and deep if she had felt nothing? Why had her heart reacted and went into a sudden spasm? Why had her skin burned and lips stung with a strange, invisible fire that she had never felt before?

Had that been part of Ginny's spell too?

Hermione doubted it, but a part of her hoped Ginny had done that to fool her.

Hermione regretted yelling at Ginny like she had, but there had been no other way. Hermione had been fed up with her antics of trying to get the two of them together, or getting her to admit that she – this being hypothetically – was in love with him. Ginny had been known to play the role of a matchmaker along with Parvati and Lavender, Ginny being the most successful one with having set up three of the lasting couples in Hogwarts, but Hermione did not believe in matchmaking. If it were indeed meant to be, the couple would find and fall in love with each other without an eager spectator waiting in the next booth.

It was true that Hermione got quite lonely sometimes, especially during the holidays such as Christmas and Valentine's Day, but she had always found some way to cure it. It wasn't such a big problem, really. She knew she would find that someone when it was time. Unless, of course, she was meant to be alone.

Because she didn't believe that there was an individual for _everyone_. She believed that some people – like, perhaps, her – were put in the world to be alone. Sure it was sad, but her aunt Ophelia was nearing her fifties and she hadn't a husband and she seemed perfectly happy. She liked gardening, took pottery classes and was quite a painter with some of her work in exhibits and museums. She was single, she was successful, and most importantly, she was happy.

So that only proved something very important.

That love was a battlefield?

No.

While that was true, what it proved was that a woman didn't need a man to make her happy. Whatever that meant.

oooo

The classes were dull and uneventful for Hermione that week, and the lively chatter in the red-and-pink heart decorated halls made her nauseous with loneliness. She had come to viciously hate Valentine's Day and also the taunting colors pink and red. She would have started tearing down the little streamers and hearts dangling from the ceiling if she hadn't been so exhausted all the time. She literally hadn't any energy to do anything at all.

Ginny wouldn't even look at her through her long and tiring days, and Hermione felt even more wretched because of it. Ron and Harry would always be by her side, and as much as she liked having the needed company, she felt as if the walls were closing in around her and sometimes just had to run ahead just so she could be alone and get herself to breathe normally again. Sometimes, she even found herself not being able to breathe at all.

Harry had noticed and asked her if she was ill, but Hermione just shook her head and pathetically told him that she had had trouble going to sleep the past week. Knowing that Hermione was telling the truth (and she was), Harry just gave her a reassuring smile and reassuringly told her that Valentine's Day would be over soon and that the sickening public displays of affection would soon stop. Hearing that from someone else other than herself made her feel oddly comforted and relieved.

She had assigned the writers their first piece, which was to highlight the event of Valentine's Day and report the history of the special holiday, which was only reasonable for the week. The issue would come out in the middle of the week after Valentine's Day and it would be quite all right since it would feature some interviews and information on the day and make their peers reflect back to the day… whether they wanted to, or not.

Thankfully, the only good thing about Valentine's Day was that Professor Dumbledore had announced that singing valentines wouldn't be allowed this year, due to a certain incident involving Neville and also some blast-ended skrewts.

Unfortunately, during a walk to Transfiguration, Harry had taken advantage of her exhaustion and made her agree to come and watch them on their practice on Valentine's evening. He had insisted very annoyingly, and Hermione, not having the strength to refuse after the twentieth time he asked, resignedly just said yes. It wasn't as if she had any plans for Valentine's Day, after all, except maybe trying to untangle all of her problems. But she figured maybe Harry could help. She thought that she ought to give it a try before officially packing her bags and heading off to Spinsterdom.

As for Draco Malfoy, they did not interact at all. Their eyes would meet at times during class, in the corridors or in the Great Hall, but neither of them ever spoke to each other anymore. Not even with the usual rude "Mudblood" taunts that had been curiously few over the past months. Hermione figured it was best that they were no longer on speaking terms since she didn't know what she was to do if they were indeed to talk again. There would be that awkwardness and tense silence between them after the kiss, and she didn't know if she could take that.

But… she couldn't be… she couldn't be in _love_ with him, could she? After all, it was absurd! Hermione Granger, the Gryffindor Bookworm falling for the cynical and rich Slytherin, Draco Malfoy? It was beyond logic and theories, and anything Muggle or wizard has ever known!

_How_ could she ever fall in _love _with _him_? _How?_

It was just impossible. Inconceivable. It just couldn't happen. Ever. Not in this lifetime or any other. It defied all of the laws of love, humans, and nature!

It was nearly driving her insane.

On Valentine's Day, special charmed roses were passed out during classes and in the Great Hall, distributed by some odd-looking, pink-feathered birds that looked strangely like overstuffed and stout flamingos that had eaten one too many Valentine quiches with heart-decorated saddlebags.

The roses would reveal and speak the sender's special message if you'd rub the bottom petal, and danced if you snapped your fingers. All day long, Hermione heard happy squeals, and each time, she cringed and wanted to rip the roses from their hands, throw it on the floor, and crush in under her heel.

Not such a surprise, Hermione did not receive a rose. Draco received quite a bundle, about two dozen, but ended up burning them and putting the ashes in Crabbe and Goyle's drinks. Harry also received about two dozen, rivaling Draco's amount, and Hermione could only smile at how red his cheeks had gotten after the messages had been revealed – though he had not rub the petals. Unfortunately for Harry, the message would play about five minutes later anyway, even if the petals were not rubbed.

Classes that day were not as uneventful for they required some rare hands-on work and less note taking, which Hermione fairly liked. Though Hermione liked taking notes, she preferred actually trying some spells. She could only thank God that she hadn't been seated by Neville. Not that she didn't like him – he was a nice bloke, really… but he had already set her hair on fire once (on accident), and she didn't care to repeat that. Ever.

After classes Hermione went back to her room to study awhile and also escape from the Valentine's Day Madness. She read and studied from her Potions and Transfiguration textbooks for about an hour (and secretly sulked for about half of that) before she got up to meet Harry and the Quidditch team at the Pitch.

Hermione headed down the stairs, smiling back at the portraits that greeted her. When she reached the corridors she found herself passing some snogging couples and some who were just blissfully happy and holding hands. This made Hermione look away sadly, feeling that same painful pang in her heart, and also want to whip out her Head Girl badge and warning notes and deduct House points for their public displays of affection and torturing the rest of the people with their stupid gumdrops-and-lollipops affair. And by people she meant her. There was nobody else in the corridor that was single _besides_ her.

When she arrived, with the sky already a slightly dark hue, the Quidditch team had already started practicing. Hermione smiled, crossing her arms from a breeze that had passed as she walked through the stands. She waved as Harry spotted her, and he flew over to her, the wind ruffling his raven hair.

"About time, Hermione," he grinned boyishly at her. "Did you get lost?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Got a bit distracted, that's all."

Harry raised one midnight brow at her. "Distracted? Did Lockhart stop by?"

"Now that you mention it, I think I did see a man in pink robes with a brilliant smile and immaculate hair. So maybe. I wouldn't know. I've stopped subscribing to his fanclub. Cost me four Galleons a month for that thing," she complained.

Harry grinned at her. "I'm glad you came, Hermione. I wouldn't want you to be cooped up in your room on Valentine's Day."

"Ah, the pity invite. Thank you for that."

"No problem. Anything to make you feel special. Oh, and Hermione?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"What are you doing tonight?"

"Well, let's take a look at my schedule, shall we? I've got Sulking and Pouting at nine. Studying For a Heinously Large Amount of time at nine-fifteen for about three hours. Patrol Duty With Just About the Most Despicable Person You Will Ever Have the Displeasure of Meeting at curfew. Not Sleeping at one. Studying Some More For the Sake of My Boring Life at two. So, not much going on besides the usual."

"When'd you get so funny? I don't remember you being so funny and ultimately _sad_ in a sense of… time."

"Ah, see, and that's where life gets you. The satirical humor."

He was smiling at her. "I'd just like to talk to you. Could you stay after the practice?"

"Sure, I mean, I think I'm boring enough to do that."

Harry shook his head. "Stop hanging 'round Ron, will you? Anyway, I'd better get back before they start complaining."

Hermione nodded. "All right then. Break a leg. Or don't. You know what I mean."

Harry grinned widely at her before he flew back out to his teammates.

Hermione sat back down, wondering when she _did_ get so funny.

She watched them practice the brand new strategies that Harry had told her about as the night became darker and cooler. Hermione was glad to see that the Gryffindor Quidditch team had certainly improved and moved more swiftly as she watched on.

Just as she expected, the prickling cold and the extravagant and radiant night flushed out the drowsiness from her body. She inhaled the fresh air and smiled, remembering how she had always liked the evenings. It was beautiful, dark and mysterious, but it always produced the most pleasant mood and breezes.

Soon, the stars began to appear in the dark night sky as she looked heavenwards. Quidditch practice had never been this… swell and enjoyable before. Maybe because Harry had never chosen to have it nearing the evening like so, but she made a mental note to tell him that his practices ought to be more like this. She certainly wouldn't mind going to the practices anymore if he did schedule his practices farther into the day.

Hermione looked down and saw that they had stopped the play. They were all crowded around Harry, who seemed to be talking to them. She couldn't hear him very clearly, for Harry never really had such a voice made for pep-talking a team, but not a minute later he dismissed them. Hermione watched them as they flew down to the ground and got off their brooms before walking over to the entry of the school. Ron called out a "Goodnight" to her, and she shouted back a reply.

Hermione looked on as Harry waved to his teammates a goodnight and then looked up at her. Even from a distance, Hermione could tell when he was smiling at her. She waved to him and he flew up to her in the stands.

After landing quietly beside her, he dismounted his broom and neatly placed it near him as he sat down beside her.

Hermione proudly smiled at him as he took his seat next to her. "Well, good job out there," she said to him. "Both legs still in their sockets, I see. Magnificent feat. Terrible at the pep talks, though. Can't fathom why they'd ever choose you for that part."

Harry laughed. "Pure talent, remember, Hermione?"

"Vaguely," she said, smiling. "All right then, Potter, what was it that you needed to speak to me about? Not anything too serious, I hope, or exciting. I don't think my miserable wreck of a life could take too much excitement. Wouldn't want to kill me, would you?"

"Wait," said Harry, as he reached inside his pocket. "Here," Harry grinned, as he pulled out a bright crimson rose with a short stem. "This is for you. Happy Valentine's Day, Hermione."

Hermione gasped silently, but her gape turned into a wide smile as she took the rose gently from his hand and ran her fingers through the silky petals. She looked up at him, her warm brown eyes twinkling brightly.

"Thanks, Harry," she said sincerely and appreciatively. "You didn't have to, you know. I feel… awfully idiotic. I didn't get you anything," she said, embarrassed. "I mean, I didn't know whether you were a sunflowers or a roses kind of person. Then I started thinking maybe neither – maybe you were into daisies. So forgive my lack of preparation."

Harry laughed. "That's all right, Hermione. This is my small gift to you. You didn't have to get me anything. This was your little surprise."

Hermione grinned gratefully at him. "I appreciate it a lot, Harry," she said. "But…" she looked down at it. Damn it. She suddenly remembered she hated roses. "Why?"

"Well, it didn't look like you were enjoying your Valentine's Day, and you didn't get any roses, so… I wanted to cheer you up. I know Valentine's Day is hard without… that _special someone_, but we have each other, right?"

"The pity invite along with the pity rose? Oh, Harry, you really do know how to charm a girl."

He laughed. "Shut up, Hermione."

"I'm joking," she smiled. "I appreciate it. But what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Oh, that, right," he said, leaning back. "What's going on, anyway?"

"What do you mean?" Hermione inquired.

"I mean with you. You've been sort of… remote lately. I mean, I know it's all hustle and bustle with the Harmonium and all, but you seem so tired. I hope you aren't overworking yourself. You can tell us these things, you know."

Hermione thought for a second. "You know, that's actually a very blurry line. The line between what I should tell you and what I shouldn't." Now, she was actually going on a tangent she had been thinking of – which was about whether she should tell Harry about her latest mortification, and so it wasn't surprising at all when Harry sent her a very confused look and asked her what she meant by that – because of course she could tell them anything, they were her friends.

"I know, but it isn't about that. Think about it, Harry. Sometimes it's better off keeping things to yourself. But then," she said, beginning to really think, "what if your friends can help you?"

Harry blinked. "E-exactly. That's what I'm saying. Do you need us to help you with anything?"

"Capital question, Harry," Hermione said. "I do have something I need you to answer. See, I have this friend. She thinks she might be in love with this absolute prick. I keep telling her to shut up about it and just let it simmer – it'll go away, right, and she shouldn't have to worry about that sort of nonsense when she's got the entire half of her school year to concern herself with. But then the feeling's… inescapable," she said, scrunching up her nose, looking slightly like a rabbit. So adorable Hermione Granger was when she was totally out of her mind. "So my friend doesn't know what to do. I mean, is she in love with him or isn't she? How can you tell, exactly? Is there a test you can take? And is it essay questions or multiple choice?"

Harry blinked again. For some reason his friend's peculiarity level had gone way up these past few days. "Right. Your friend… she thinks she's in love. I don't think there's an actual test you can take, Hermione, essay questions or multiple choice. But let's just try to calculate this, shall we? So the bloke you say is a total and complete –"

"Git, exactly. Gi-normous ego. Really mean."

"Right. And why does she fancy him?"

"That's just it!" Hermione exclaimed. "I don't know! I mean, I keep asking her, but she really doesn't know either! She's _completely_ mental! I mean, she's this close to foaming in the mouth. But what do you think she should do? How can she find out exactly if she is or if she isn't?"

"Well, I don't know," said Harry. "I'm not exactly too well acquainted with this stuff, Hermione, maybe you should ask someone else. I mean, I think I've been in love before, but –"

"Good! That's good! Now could you just tell me what you remember from it? From being in love, I mean? How it felt?"

"Bloody horrible," Harry replied. "Being in love _sucks_, Hermione. Your friend must be in total _agony_ right now. I mean, you can't concentrate on anything, and you get these sodding flies in your stomach, like you're some rotting carcass or something, split open in the Safari. It's so disturbing sometimes you want to throw up. And being alone with them… it's like torture. Because you want to, but at the same time, you're scared to death of them. It's like a Stephen King novel. Full of psychological drills that go smack to your brain."

Then there was a beeping sound.

Hermione looked down at her wristwatch and saw that it was already curfew. Hermione felt her throat suddenly feel as if it had been completely drained of moisture, her mouth feeling as if she had just attempted to eat chalk. Her heart began to race with the thought of facing Draco with her new consciousness.

Hermione stood up quickly, clumsily almost tripping over herself, knowing she had to leave before Harry had the mind to ask any questions. She even gained one rather unpleasant head rush in all her hurry.

Harry looked at her questionably as she started to back up.

"I've got to go, Harry," she told him, walking faster. "I've got patrol tonight."

"Wait, Hermione!" Harry called out to her, standing. "I'll walk you back!"

"No! Sorry! I'm going to be late! Thanks for everything, Harry! See you tomorrow!" she called out, as she had turned and started running towards the entry to the school from the Quidditch field. She knew she had quite a long way to go.

Hermione ran down the stairs and unto the grassy field, seeing the distant doorway up ahead. She was running as fast as she could, as if she was running from the fact that she was indeed in love, but as the wind blew through her hair, she wanted nothing but to forget everything. Everything that Harry had said, everything that Ginny had said, everything that anyone had said…

Because it wasn't fair. It just wasn't. She was a nice girl – she studied hard, she didn't smoke, she didn't shag people in the loo, didn't support PDA. . . . What had she possibly done to deserve such a cruel fate? In love with _Draco Malfoy_? That was like code for Kill Yourself Now While You Still Can!

The wind roared in her ears as she willed her feet to go on faster. But no, she wasn't running from him… ironically, though she didn't notice it yet, she was running _to_ him.

She shook her screeching thoughts away as she finally went through the doorway and found herself in a recognizable corridor. It was dim with the exception of the lit torches against the walls, but there wasn't another soul there. Her heart was still thundering in her chest and her legs were starting to get tired, but she kept running. Her breathing was hard and ragged and her side was starting to ache as she turned into another hallway.

But as her hands tightened into fists, she felt something in her hand. She looked down as she turned into another corridor, and she saw the rose that Harry had given her. But as she quickly remembered and looked up – she didn't look up fast enough and she found herself crashing into something warm and solid, letting out a high, surprised shriek. She heard a shocked, deep grunt, as she fell backwards onto the hard floor.

oooo

Draco was walking around the corridors, looking for his patrol "companion." He looked irritably down the dark corridor as he sighed and started walking towards the turn.

"Damn it, Granger," he grumbled to himself. "Where in Merlin's bloody name are you?"

Lost in his thoughts and scowling at the unknown whereabouts of the Head Girl, he didn't hear the rapid footsteps coming from the next corridor and heading right towards him. '_Patrolling on Valentine's night! With Granger! What a whole lot of agonizing, excruciating rubbish! I should've refused when I had the chance! This is all Lucius' fault! Father, if you can hear me, I swear I am going to bestow immeasurable pain on you once I get out of this sodding school—'_

Unfortunately, as he turned the corridor, he didn't prepare himself quickly enough for what was to happen.

Turning the corner, his breath was knocked out of his body as he felt something crash into him, and he stumbled back, surprised and alarmed. He heard a high-pitched scream fill his ears as he staggered back from the impact. He blinked forcefully, trying to get the neon blotches to disappear from his vision before he could see normally again. He slightly shook himself, shaken from the collision and element of surprise, as he irritably looked down.

There was a crumpled form in front of him, dressed in the Hogwarts uniform minus the heavy and fairly annoying robes and sweater vest. He couldn't see the face, for she – the person was wearing a skirt… and well, he obviously took in her womanly features – had her arms up to cover it, but he could see the brown curls… which looked strangely, very familiar. And that smell…

Draco distorted his face as he looked down and saw a red rose lying on the ground. He guessed that the flower had come from the girl who was obviously not following the rules of the corridors: "NO RUNNING AT ALL TIMES." Draco scowled, remembering that he and Granger had specifically emphasized that about ten times to their Houses and had made the prefects do it, as well. It annoyed him greatly that their good intentions were put to waste.

Honestly! Did no one clean their ears around here?

Sighing with an unpleasant glower on his pale and pointy face, he bent down to pick it up. He observed the flower, deep crimson petals with a short stem. He then knew that the girl had not gotten this from those pink birds flying around and giving out those ridiculous Valentine's roses.

When he heard the young girl start to groan and fuss, he looked down. His eyes widened and a breath hitched in his throat when he saw just who the girl was underneath the brown curls.

He found himself looking at Hogwarts' very own tardy Head Girl.

She had a pained expression on her face that made Draco mentally scoff, '_Serves her right,'_ albeit the sudden humming now reverberating from his body.

Hermione looked up at him, clutching her forehead to try and make the continuous banging in her cranium stop. Her eyes enlarged and she found her mouth go dry at who it was staring down at her with a familiar red flower in his milky hands.

"Malfoy?" she croaked, her heart now racing faster.

"Granger," he said back to her, surprised.

Finally, he shook himself mentally of his thoughts and shock as the scowl he once had on his face reappeared. He looked down on her. "You're _late_," he snapped at her. "Get up."

Hermione looked at him, a puzzled look flashing across her face before sighing to herself and grimacing, running a hand through her hair. She pressed her palms to the floor and tried to help herself up. "You could at least help me up," she grumbled bitterly as she felt pain shooting up from her rear and back.

Draco rolled his eyes, seeing her pathetically trying to get up. "What are you, some invalid? Besides, _you_ were the one who was running. You deserve the bloody consequence. Help _yourself_ up," he told her coldly.

Hermione glowered as she felt a sudden sore twinge in her heart from his harsh words. "Fine," she huffed, her hands trembling.

But as she tried to get herself on her feet, her knees still seemed to be weak from the sudden impact and fall. The remains of her brain sloshing around in her skull didn't feel too well, either.

Draco, seeing her rather pitiable attempt to stand, was worried deep beneath the cold, bastard persona. He could see how her hands were shaking and as she tried to get on her feet, he could already see how violently her knees were quivering. He took a step closer, unaware of his actions, concerned for the young girl.

Hermione got to her feet, but sucked in a sharp breath as she felt her wobbly legs suddenly lose balance. Her eyes widened and she screamed as her knees gave way.

Draco, seeing her suddenly start to fall back, grabbed her arm quickly and pulled her to him, which caused her to crash into him, yet again. He wrapped his other arm firmly around her waist, steadying her into him, finding his breaths pounding through his ears and mouth.

He sighed in relief.

Before it dawned on him exactly what he was doing now.

And then it knocked the breath out of him all over again.

Hermione wrapped her arms tightly around him, her eyes shut tightly, panting hard. She half expected herself to feel the mind-blowing and painful impact of the solid, cold floor underneath her, only half realizing that she had been saved, as she held on tighter. She could feel the warmth of the person she was holding onto, a sort of warmth that seeped into her fingers and skin, dripping down into her veins and coursing through her. Her body suddenly seemed so warm, profoundly warm, so healthy and so… grateful, if that made any sense. It was a feeling she couldn't describe, even if she tried to.

It was just then, when she opened her eyes, that she realized just what she really was doing. And to whom she was holding onto so tightly and firmly.

Holy shit.

Hermione's eyes widened like tea saucers and her heart started to thunder and leap in her chest again. Her breaths came out short and ragged as if she was somehow afraid to let out the deep breaths her lungs ached for. Her fingers curled, and she could feel his shirt crumpling with the motion. She let out a sharp sigh, suddenly frantic and frightened. She moved her head that she had dug onto his shoulder, and felt the warmth radiating from him.

But wasn't Draco Malfoy supposed to be made out of ice? Wasn't he supposed to be frigid and cold and frosty to the bone? Like a live snowman? He was not supposed to be generating human body heat!

In an instant, she felt as if the room was far too hot to bear.

She had to let go, but couldn't. Should let go, but didn't want to. Tried to force herself, but then became aware of the firm grip around her waist, and realized that that was… him. He was holding her, too. She'd been expecting for him to push her back down to the floor and then brush himself off, sneering, reminding her of how dirty she was, angry with the degradation she'd forced unto him by their physical contact. (To which she would then rightly respond by kicking him hard at the shins and telling him off.)

Draco let out a sigh, inhaling the sweet and aromatic scent of her. Against his logic, reason, conscience and everything he knew, he rather liked holding her, as sick and twisted that was. But, damn it, she just felt so warm and so soft. Holding her this way, holding her so close, it felt poignantly right. And, seriously, gag him. But it was just one of the moments where you are caught so horribly unguarded by something, perhaps, like physical interaction and you have no choice but to go along with it while thinking in your very head, _What_ the _hell_?

"_Draco, don't get involved with anything, anyone. Remember our plan. You don't want any distractions. No distractions, Draco. Believe me, it'll be better that way."_

Draco's eyes shot open as the voice rang in his mind.

The warning.

Draco suddenly pulled away from her, as quick as lightning, and they simply stared at each other, both breathing muted breaths from inside their chests.

"Don't be late," he simply snapped at her, before turning around and leaving her there. She caught up to him later on, but neither of them talked to each other for the rest of the night. Thank God, or else could anybody say Awkward City?

oooo

Ginny awoke, rubbing the sleepiness away from her eyes. She could see that the curtains had already been opened for the room was annoyingly bright and she frowned at the fact that maybe a slap would be affective in telling Parvati never to open the ruddy curtains until everybody was awake. She looked around and saw some of her fellow dorm mates still asleep. Her gaze wandered around the room and saw some made, empty beds and realized that some had already gone down to breakfast.

Just then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a peculiar and shiny glint. Ginny turned her head in the direction of the tiny flash, with one ginger brow curiously erect.

There, on her dresser, were exactly three galleons, piled neatly upon her books.

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**A/N: **I don't really like Ginny. I don't know if you can tell. I don't like Ron either. (makes face) Those are my confessions. What are yours? **Review **and tell me! 


	16. Snapped Strings

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: Own only plot and Connor. Everything else respectively belongs to J.K. Rowling. And God.

* * *

**Edited 6.06**

Enjoy! Snogging and note-passing in one chapter, who knew life would be so great?

* * *

**Snapped Strings**

So Hermione Granger was in love with Draco Malfoy. What exactly did that prove? Nothing. Except the one fact that she'd known all this time: she was needed some good psychiatric help. She'd pondered all the reasons how and why she could have fallen in love with him – because even in the most hopeless cases she'd been able to find one _good_ point. For instance, when she'd fancied Ron. Ron was a good person, had a kind heart and all that, never mind the temper and the constant sweet tooth and the ability to never listen to her and never throw away his used parchments in the common room when he was finished. But he was a good person. See? One deserving quality. Which was more than she could say for Draco. She couldn't even think of _any_ – so that brought on this question: _why_ did people fall in love with people in the first place? Was it a matter of scientific reasoning? Was it in the pheromones or testosterone they gave out? Compatibility? (No, that was a joke, because she was certainly not compatible with Draco Malfoy.)

Because she'd never asked for this. She didn't recall asking to fall in love with some git who had a broom lodged up his arse and a face impediment that made him smirk and sneer all the time.

Hermione ran her fingers through her hair, sighing, before walking to the door. She glanced at the clock, seeing that she was right on time, before she turned the knob, opened the door, and walked out. The common room and Heads corridor was empty because she had made sure to leave earlier than Draco (for very obvious reasons), but as she headed out into the main hallways she joined a number of her peers also on their way out to the Great Hall.

Dean Thomas was one of them, as he waved to her and she smiled back. He struck up some conversation with her.

"Lovely morning, Hermione," he greeted her.

"Indeed," she replied, giving him a small smile. "How is that first piece? Are you doing all right?"

Dean grinned, nodding. "Finished it last night, actually, after interviewing a few people and couples. I've only got to reread it and check for any mistakes or misspellings, and then it's all ready for your reading and editing pleasure."

"Splendid," she smiled. "I'm glad."

"Did you have a good Valentine's Day?" he asked her. "Harry was talking about you last night when he got back to the dormitory. He asked us if we had noticed that you were acting rather peculiar."

Hermione looked up at Dean, slightly startled. She felt a slither of guilt creep through her skin. "Was he angry?" she asked him. She remembered how hastily she had left him the night before. It was a very rude thing to do and she would've never done that to anyone, let alone Harry, had she been in her normal state of thinking. But she'd had a panic attack and she'd gone berserk.

"I didn't mean to run out on him like I did. I was… I had just been late for the nightly patrol with… with Malfoy," she swallowed, a bitter taste in her mouth.

Dean shook his head, a kind and understanding expression on his face. "No, he isn't angry with you, Hermione," he said. "You know Harry. He's just worried, is all."

Hermione sighed, looking down with remorse. "He shouldn't. Worry about other people so much, I mean. There are just some things that are too complicated to understand."

Yes. Waaaaay too complicated to ever understand.

"I agree. By the way, you did really well at the introductory meeting. I heard that Malfoy found out. Did he give you any trouble? Wait, what am I saying? Of course he did," he corrected himself, shaking his head, chuckling. "Another complicated thing never to be understood: temperamental Slytherins like Malfoy."

Bingo.

Hermione smiled weakly, trying to quench the sudden dryness in her mouth at the mention of him. "Right," she said, nodding. "Absolutely. Totally agree with you."

"But he didn't give you _too_ much trouble, did he?" he asked, looking at her.

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but then closed it again. Her cheeks reddened at the remembrance of that day and what had happened after their explosive argument. Damn it. The mortal face does _not lie_.

"Actually," she told Dean, trying to make the abrupt heat in her cheeks vanish, "he gave me hell, but I lived to tell the tale, didn't I?"

Dean laughed. "That was to be expected. Same old, same old, isn't that right? I have an odd feeling, though, that one day, that Slytherin prick is going to surprise us in some bizarre way. I don't know how or why I could possibly feel that, but it's there. Do you think it's possible?"

She snorted – perhaps a little louder than was normal. "No. Not at all."

Dean shrugged as they neared the Great Hall's tall wooden doors. "Yeah, I know, I was just saying. Thought I might give it a try. Too weird, huh?"

"Totally," said Hermione.

They entered the Great Hall, and Hermione tangled free from her burdening thoughts as she spotted a familiar head of ginger hair at the Gryffindor table. Hermione smiled with relief as she saw Ginny beaming at her. Hermione walked over to her and Ginny's smile widened, her eyes gleaming with joy and enthusiasm.

"Is this seat taken?" Hermione asked her, pleased to see her smiling at her again.

Ginny shook her head ecstatically. "No, it's not. It's actually reserved for you."

Hermione raised an eyebrow at her. "Is it really?" she asked, faking surprise.

"Oh, Hermione. Just sit down, will you?" she said, nearly accosting her.

And so she did.

"So," Ginny started, as Hermione reached for an orange across from her. "Our Head Girl has finally come to her senses, has she not?"

"She has," Hermione said quietly, staring down at her orange. "But that doesn't mean I'm _for_ it. It's bloody suicide, that's what it is. And actually, it isn't coming to my senses at all. It's _losing_ my senses, but then still having enough sense to _know_ that I've lost my senses in the process."

Ginny blinked. "What?" she said, before shaking her head. "Never mind, I don't even want to know. But tell me what happened. Was it last night?"

Hermione sighed, not exactly ready to go through it just yet. It had been all she could think about, and now… she had to share it with Ginny. Ginny was a great friend, she was, but she was obviously blind to Hermione's utter suffering. "Actually, Ginny—" Hermione had begun to say, starting to peel her orange, but Ginny narrowed her eyes at her suspiciously and snatched the orange away before Hermione could take off the first peel. "—_Hey_!" Hermione said to her, surprised. "I was going to eat that!"

Great. Falling in love with Malfoy and now she was not allowed to eat.

"Don't 'Actually, Ginny' _me_, Hermione," Ginny sternly told her. "I know what you were going to say, and I _demand_ that you reconsider."

Hermione sighed loudly, looking up towards the ceiling – it was one of those meditation things she did sometimes. "Ginny, I know that you know that this is a problem. I – _I_ – don't go around falling in you-know-what with boys like you-know-who," she said somewhat frenetically. "This is a _problem_. And I don't think you comprehend that. This is a problem. What is it, Ginny? It's a?"

Ginny rolled her eyes, nodding along. "Problem," she finished off. She handed her back her orange. "I still think you're being ridiculous. I mean, it isn't such a big deal. People fall in love with absolute gits all the time. You've been in love before, haven't you?"

Hermione didn't answer.

Ginny peered closely at her. "Merlin's unwashed breeches, Hermione. Don't tell me that you've never—"

"I'm busy, okay, Ginny?" Hermione quickly said. "I don't have time for that stuff."

Ginny guffawed very conspicuously. "Busy! Busy has nothing to do with it. You know what busyness earns you? A polished spot in Spinster city, that's what! No wonder you fell in love with you-know-who! You aren't around any other blokes than Harry and Ron! So this isn't a matter of compatibility or the sort, Hermione. This is a matter of you not getting enough male exposure," she said, pointing at her and talking lowly. "_You_ need to go out on _dates_. _You_ need to be _Ginnyfied_."

Hermione practically choked on her orange. In fact, she could have sworn some pulp went straight out her nose. "I'm sorry, did you just say _Ginnyfied_?"

"Yeah. It's what I call it when people get a makeover from me. Don't have a cow, Hermione. People make up words all the time."

Hermione laughed. "Thanks for the offer, but I don't want to be _Ginnyfied_. I'm perfectly fine. Now, if you've got some hypnosis treatment or potion for getting me out of this whole love rut, then call me. But no Ginnyfying me."

Ginny shrugged. "Your loss, Hermione. But you've got to figure out a way to get your man or else he'll get scooped up by one of the other girls. Do you have any _idea_ how many girls fancy Draco Malfoy?"

"No, and I don't think I want to," said Hermione. "All of them are deranged."

Ginny snorted. "I wouldn't be talking, Hermione. You're part of that group, too. All I'm saying is, you need to come up with some strategy. Obviously, you don't want my help, which – good _luck_ by the way. But come on. You've got to –"

"First of all, I don't intend on _getting my man_," Hermione clarified. "Second, he is not _my man_. Third, I want to get over this as soon as possible. And fourth, I _despise_ Dra—him. I have no absolute clue why such a cruel happenstance has come upon me, but believe you me, regarding it, I will do nothing but resist. No _getting my man_."

Ginny sighed. "Merlin, Hermione, when'd you get so snobby?"

"Around the same time I lost my sanity."

"Oh, right, I remember."

oooo

Herbology was not a Latin translation for Extreme Stalker Class, which you'd think Draco Malfoy would most certainly know, but apparently he'd gotten his mind wrapped around – and more – the Head Girl, who was having such a pleasant time listening to what plant gab Professor Sprout was spreading around now, unlike him, who was feeling a little bit antsy. At least, it looked it. There she was, looking absolutely cool and calm, her eyes to the front, while he could not focus as well as he wanted to. He'd tried occupying himself with other things, like the constant pinch he got whenever he started to get carried away with things at Hogwarts. Sometimes he needed it to make him remember that he had bigger, more important things going on than going to classes and all that rubbish. And over the past few days he'd been slipping – which Snape had bothered to remind him of with nearly a smack to the back of his head. Yes, not a very pleasant night, he recalled.

In a nutshell, all their hard work would be wasted. He couldn't let a mere, simple girl distract him, despite how she made his heart go into sudden spasms or the way she seemed to melt everything inside him, regardless of all his pathetic attempts to excuse it as something else. No. He would not let her blind him and steer him wrongly from their goals. And, besides, for Merlin's sake, she was a Muggle-born! The lowest of all creatures!

Though, she did look awfully pretty today.

Draco cleared his throat.

He sighed silently and looked towards the front of the class, steering his gaze to the front where their Herbology teacher was lecturing them about the little plant in front of them.

"Be cautious. This flower can indeed be sneaky and manipulative. As I said before, this is one of the rare flowers that signify a combination of such great beauty and danger. Inside the little red bulb is a jaw full of razor sharp teeth, and you'd be surprised to know just what this flower can eat. It can eat just about anything, from paper, to insects, to any of your supplies or clothing… but what it thirsts for the most, is blood. It doesn't care which kind, just raw and pure blood."

Draco smirked amusedly as he looked around and saw everyone shudder, looking down at their pots with a nervous expression. He chuckled softly as he noticed some even take a tiny step back.

"This flower is indeed dangerous, but some consider its beauty very valuable and its jaw of razor sharp teeth another symptom of its extraordinary form…."

It was then Draco noticed a scrap of parchment that had slid its way over to him. He looked up, trying to find out who it was from, and discovered Granger looking at him with a particularly anxious expression on her face. 'Go on,' she mouthed to him. 'Read it.'

So Draco discretely got it and unfolded it behind his flowerpot, ducking his head down only slightly to read the note.

_The Quidditch writer,_ it said. _We still haven't got one._

Feeling an annoying crick in his neck, Draco scowled, before silently fetching one of his quills from his bag. He wrote down a messy reply.

_So what?_

He hastily folded back up into a stubby little square before he looked up again, observing the class, and seeing that the Professor had her back turned to them, he passed it back to Granger, who was across from him, with a flick of his wrist. Luckily, no one noticed, except Potter, who caught Granger slipping it inside the sleeve of her robes and then looked up at Draco, glaring at him. Draco, in return, smirked at him. For old times' sake.

Draco watched her expression as she read his reply. Her brows furrowed in annoyance and her mouth quirked down as she wrote something else down, before looking up, scowling at him, and passing it back.

Draco caught it with his hand, and now Potter was avidly watching the silent interaction. He elbowed Hermione and asked her what was going on, but she only shook her head and told him it was Head business while Draco read her reply.

_So what? SO WHAT? Have you any understanding what this means, Malfoy? Is there any single tiny cell in that bigoted head of yours that can perceive the OUTRAGEOUS AMOUNT OF URGENCY IN THIS MATTER? _

Draco was about to fetch his quill, but caught a small blot at the very end of the parchment.

_Git._

Amused, Draco penned down another reply.

_I'm afraid my brain cells are more preoccupied with more substantial things, like I'm most certain yours are with being neurotic and mental._

He folded it back up, and passed it back to her –

But that was, however, before the small parchment square began to float right into the air, catching the eyes of everyone around them. He could see Granger's mouth open in a small O and her eyes widen.

"Mister Malfoy, Miss Granger," they heard their Professor say. "You know the rules about note passing in my class. _No_ note passing in my class."

And with that, the small square burst into a small blue flame, mid-air, dissolving away into ash that soon scattered away.

Everyone stared at them, and while Granger was now the hue of a ripe tomato, Draco simply glowered at them, telling them to sod off with his face. An extraordinary talent.

Too bad. He would have actually liked her to read his response. It'd been rather witty.

oooo

"Hermione?"

Hermione looked down in the direction of the voice and it seemed to have come from Ron – who, needless to say, was still chewing his food in front of her. He too looked at her curiously.

"Mind telling us exactly what you're doing? What are you looking for?"

She looked at him, and then frowned. "Ron, please," she told him. "How many times have I told you to swallow before you talk?" she sighed, and got back to looking.

"Hermione?"

She looked back in front of her, and realized that it was Harry who was speaking to her now. "Are you looking for something?"

She smiled weakly at him. "Actually, Harry, there's a bit of an occupation in the newspaper that needs filling, so—" but she halted in mid-sentence, an idea flashing inside her head like a wailing siren, looking at Harry. Her eyes widened and they suddenly sparkled. "That's _it_!" she suddenly exclaimed.

Ron, Ginny and Harry jumped at the sudden outburst.

"What's '_it,_' Hermione?" asked Ginny nervously. "Are you ill?"

"Tourettes, maybe?" Ron suggested.

Hermione shook her head, her eyes twinkling brightly with realization. "_Oh_!" she said to herself, shaking her head. "I _can't_ believe I haven't thought of this before! Where have I _been_?" she said to herself.

Ron, Ginny, and Harry both exchanged questioning glances. "Uh, here?"

"Hermione—" Harry started, trying to ask her exactly what she seemed so thrilled about, but she cut him off.

"Harry, you like Quidditch, right?" she asked, practically bursting.

Harry blinked, looking at her with a strange look on his face. "Um, I suppose so, yes, I do, Hermione, but I don't get what that has to do with–"

"Do you know a lot about Quidditch?" she asked him, still on her feet.

"I… I suppose you can say that," he said, fidgeting in his seat, getting a bit uneasy from her odd and sudden questions. Ron and Ginny were sending them both looks.

"That's _great!"_ she said. "Harry, how would you like to be the Quidditch Expert for the Harmonium?" she asked him.

Harry's emerald eyes widened. This was certainly a surprising proposal, considering that Harry had grown to hate the newspaper business after the Daily Prophet had devoted a whole section to him on their Rumor Mill page. He began to dither quite incoherently. "I-Hermione-I don't know if I could—"

"Oh, please, Harry?" she pleaded. "Please? It'll be _fun_! I know it's last minute, but you'll only be writing about Quidditch, tactics and the teams! Don't you _love_ that? I always hear you and Ron talk about it, and—"

"Hermione, I _can't_," Harry told her firmly. "I can't become… a writer, for your newspaper."

Seeing his face so resolute with his answer, Hermione felt her heart crumble down to the sharp pit of her stomach. Her smile slipped from her face and her eyes instantly dulled. She slowly sat back down.

"Why not?" she asked half-heartedly, devastated. "Why can't you do it? You love Quidditch, don't you?"

_Because I know you do!_ she wanted to scream. _You and Ron won't shut up about it whenever I'm trying to do my coursework!_

"Yes, Hermione, I do, but it's not just about that."

"Then what is it about?" she asked him, like she really wanted to know, yet looking at him suspiciously. Harry's green eyes beseeched hers, but she felt – actually, a little angry. She thought she'd been home free. What was she to do now? The bomb that had dropped on her left her deathly overwhelmed. What could it possibly be, anyhow? It wasn't like he was too busy with anything these days. He had enough time to go sneaking into the kitchens with Ron late in the evening.

"Its just… do I have the time for that? I mean, with studies, with the training, and being the Captain of the Quidditch team, I don't think I can take that on, too…" Harry gave her an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I really am."

Hermione sighed, frantically trying to figure out just how she was going to get someone who knew a lot about Quidditch and was at least a fairly good writer. That was all she needed. She couldn't blame Harry for turning her down for it seemed everything in the world depended on him nowadays, what with Voldemort's rumored coming, but… somehow, there was still that toiling bubble of anger and bitterness deep inside her chest.

Everyone could refuse. Everyone else could say no. But not her, no. Not Hermione Granger. She was expected to agree and multitask amazingly and even have time after all that. They expected her to be the perfect editor, the perfect Head Girl, the perfect student, the perfect friend… why? She didn't want to play this game anymore. She was tired, she was sleep-deprived, and she was frustrated.

All of a sudden, Hermione felt like breaking down into tears.

She had never been one to cry easily at such things. Sure, she was a girl, and that automatically sent off the message to the common people that yes, maybe she could be very overemotional sometimes and yes, sometimes she was going to cry over little things and maybe even nothing at all. But right now she was just so… _tired_. Tired and angry and frustrated. Nothing in these past few days had gone right at all. How else was she supposed to feel? Ecstatic that her whole life was going down the drain because of some stupid newspaper business some old man made up and because of a stupid smirking boy? She just couldn't help but feel so angry. Like she didn't like these people in front of her right now, because they had all the time in the world and more – to do the things that they wanted. To sulk around, to go shopping, to do whatever.

It was just that she was always counted on, always trusted to be the best, or the best behaved or the best example. Always the best. Couldn't ever be second best, always first. It wasn't pride, or anything like that. If anyone could see right through her they would know that it was a terrible thing and it was nothing to be arrogant about. She was sneered at and she had heard a few nasty humors here or there. It wasn't easy. It had never been. She just wanted people to see that.

And now… what with falling in love with her enemy, being editor, making sure her grades stayed where they were, studying and doing her assignments and trying to be a good friend that goes to Quidditch practices. . . . it was just too much. She was going horribly insane. She didn't know what to do anymore. For the first time in her life, she wanted to give up, and she wanted out.

It was hard to swallow, and there was something painfully lodged inside her throat. Her eyes began to burn with massive pressure stacking behind them as if she had been purposely gouged, and her vision became blurry as her fists clenched and she ground her teeth. She looked away, resisting the urge to cry.

"What about you, Ginny?" she whispered shakily before clearing her throat as she turned to Ginny.

Ginny looked at her sadly, her eyes regretful. "Sorry, Hermione," she said quietly. "I think… I won't be able to juggle it all, either."

Hermione sucked in a ragged breath, trying her hardest to keep the tears in, but it was becoming harder and harder with each second she allowed herself to sit there in front of her peers. She wanted to scream at them, she wanted to make them understand.

She was angry. She was angry with everyone, no matter how unreasonable she tried to tell herself it was. But it wasn't unreasonable at all. She was tired of being looked at as invincible when she wasn't, tired of being handed work when she hadn't the time. Right now, right this second, as three pairs of eyes stared back at her, waiting for her to crack, she felt like lapsing into a hysterical fit. Because, she figured, maybe that would make her feel better. Maybe that would shatter her clean, crystal image they had built up in their heads of Perfect Hermione Granger.

It was too much. It was finally too much, and she didn't know whether to cry or laugh about that.

"Hermione… are you all right?" she heard Harry ask along with Ginny. She heard a blurry concern in their voices. Even Ron was offering questions of her emotional health. "I'm sorry, Hermione, I really am. I could… I could just… well, if there's really no one else, I could do it, I'm sure," Harry started to say, but Hermione interrupted him abruptly.

"No," she firmly said to him, a burning tear slipping down her cheek that she instantly caught and wiped away with her finger before it could make its way down her face. If she was going to cry, then she was going to do it in private – not in front of her friends or the rest of the school in the Great Hall. "You don't want to. I know, Harry."

"No, Hermione, I—" he started to say again, but Hermione had already started to stand. She wiped her eyes hastily with the back of her hand, swinging her legs over the bench.

"I'll be going," she said hurriedly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Wait, Hermione," Harry called out, starting to get up also.

She gave him a glower that was meant to warn him. "_Don't_ follow me," she sternly told him, before turning on her heel and walking towards the doors.

But as Harry continued to get up to follow after her, Ginny and Ron stopped him.

"Leave her alone, mate," Ron gravely said to him, his hand on his shoulder. "I think… I think maybe she's on her monthly."

"Ron!" Ginny said, rightly smacking him on his head. "Shut up, will you? For Merlin's sake – the girl is going through a very hard time, and it isn't going to do any good to go and making jokes about monthlies, all right?"

Harry looked at them pleadingly, but then saw the serious looks on their faces, and gave one last helpless look towards the doors and sat back down.

oooo

Just as he was about to look away, there was a flicker of motion from the corner of his eye.

Draco refocused his eyes on her as she suddenly stood up. It was clear to him that she had been obviously bothered by something, though he couldn't see her face, but somehow… he could tell, strangely. Maybe it was in the way she stood up so quickly as if she was ready to run away from something or someone – for he'd know a thing or two about escaping from terrible, unwanted things. He'd seen a few try to run from Voldemort's presence in a few of the Death Eater's meetings he'd been to (courtesy of Lucius Malfoy. "Just a little glimpse of your future, son," he had told him with Draco wanting to spit in his face). Of course, none of them had ever ended up very pretty.

But he wondered what Granger would possibly want to run away from.

He shuddered, swearing under his breath again, damning whatever it was that was making him feel and act this way.

But as his eyes flickered back to her, her shifting and standing figure distracting him, he watched her start to leave and saw how she had stopped Potter from getting up. He felt an odd feeling erupt inside him as he watched her with a slightly heavy heart, walking down the aisle that separated their table from the Hufflepuff table.

As if he had some superpower that enabled him to sense when someone was in a current state of distress, he felt some sort of pull to her. He doubted it was a gravitational thing, or that "magnetic personality" rubbish that he always heard about, because for one: while Granger was a nice person, not too many people would consider her as "magnetic" when she was piled around so many books and dithering about to get her assignments done. She could also be sort of snappish and scold something terrible (making her perfectly suitable for the Head Girl spot), which was not a favorite amongst their peers.

But she was not a bad person. Annoying, yes, but never bad. After all, she had morals and principals – he didn't. He doubted she'd ever commit a crime in her life even if it were to save her life. She was insufferably good and noble that way.

Draco shook his head and tried to look away, focusing on something else – anything else, as a matter of fact – but there was that screaming again, that shouting. Vaguely, he knew what his body was telling him to do, what he wanted to. Except that he didn't know if he wanted to do what he wanted to do. He didn't want it to be true. She was a big girl; she could take care of herself. She was a fighter. She could beat the bloody pulp out of anyone if she wanted to.

Okay. Were he to carry out the foolishness his mind was proposing to him, it just would be the most insensible thing he could ever think of doing. He had to stay away from her. He had to stop these thoughts, these feelings, everything. He would not be disgraced by having her a burden upon his mind and thoughts.

And heart.

Funny now that he actually knew he had a heart. He felt it hammering against his ribcage, and that's how he knew. Unless Lucius had shoved some bomb down his throat when he wasn't looking. It was a possibility.

But he could feel everything inside him resist and insist on the ludicrous yet tempting notion of going after her. Despite his pride, his wit, his biting sarcasm and sheer determination, he was losing. He was powerless, and that was a new feeling to him that he wasn't very willing to accept into his life. He was _never_ powerless. Because, _hello_? This was Granger. The girl who wanted nothing to do with him. The girl who could do perfectly fine without his sole presence in her life. The Muggle-born he had mercilessly teased and bullied for the past six years. And perhaps that was unforgivable. And hell, it was. So then he owed nothing to her. But then why was it that he suddenly got this crazy idea in his head – and that everything in him was now overwhelmed with sudden realization, and they were all nodding their heads and saying, "Go after her, you obnoxious git. Go be useful for once and go after her."

But as he swallowed gravely, he looked up just in time to see her walk through the doors. The pounding impulse then took over, and without thinking, as if his body had completely rejected his objections and suddenly obtained a life of its own, he suddenly found himself hurriedly getting to his feet. Everything seemed dazedly surreal in his eyes as he swung his legs over the bench, the noisy and bustling atmosphere appearing to blur away like a watercolor in rain in his vision, his peers' watching eyes vanishing from the cynical depths of his thoughts.

He wanted to tell them to sod off, to go screw themselves, but his throat felt painfully dry. He felt as if all the moisture from his body had gathered up in his brain and was slowly drowning him that way.

Just what in the bleeding hell did he think he was doing?

He bolted through the halls with a hazy determination far different than he had ever experienced before. His long legs gave him an easy swift pace, and he turned abruptly, seeing her walk down the middle of the corridor. He ran after her, not exactly knowing what he was doing, but just doing what everything inside him was telling him to, despite his echoing objections. He could hear his heart pounding like a redundant and rasping beat inside his chest, booming, sending overwhelming and maybe even dangerous amounts of blood to rush through his ears. He heard that warning again, that faint, far-away voice that almost made him want to stop and return back to the Great Hall, but it was too late to turn back now – it was too late to suddenly halt and walk back.

"Granger!" he called out, running after her.

Hermione froze suddenly, hearing the last voice she had ever expected to hear in her walk of agony and defeat. She should have expected some jeerers, however, as she scornfully scowled, hearing his footsteps. So they did have an audience, and now he was just coming to rub it all in her face. She wondered if he had even brought some tomatoes to throw at her. Mashed potato would have been fine, too.

Her heart had seemed to hold its beat and everything in her body seemed to be paralyzed. Her breath ceased before she could even let it out as she instantly turned around from the sound ricocheting inside her ears and saw him.

He slowed down as he neared her, her dark eyes trailing him.

His heart was thundering in his ears, and he wouldn't be surprised if she heard it as well. It was so bloody _loud_, it was deafening.

That was when he saw her, her face. There were trails of moisture down her cheeks from her tears, and her pink lips were slightly quivering. The tip of her charming nose was also vague shade of red, as were the corners of her eyes. Her deep brown eyes, he saw, were surprised, but hurt and solemn. And angry.

They darkened as the silence grew on them. Neither of them appeared to know what to say, or could muster up enough strength to open their mouths. It was then obvious to him that she had come to expect the worst from him, and he couldn't say he blamed her.

"What is it, Malfoy?" she finally asked coldly, her voice carrying an unmistakable trembling timbre. "Come to insult the poor, _pathetic_, little _Mudblood?"_ A tear slipped from her eyes, but her once sad orbs were now defiant and alive with rage.

Draco only stayed silent, not knowing what to say. What could he say? He could still get away from all of this – he could just shoot her some snide, offensive remark and strut away. But not only was he at a loss for vowels or any sort of familiar word, he was also at a loss for any insults that would emphasize her wretchedness or pain.

But there was a vortex in the midst of everything. His pumping heart, his rushing blood, his tightening muscles and jumping thoughts. It sucked out all of the negativity. It sucked out all of the resentment he had for her, because for a reason he could not explain: he didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want to put her down when she had already and apparently been wiped all over the floor by her ungrateful friends, face-first. It seemed too cruel. It seemed too inhuman.

And Draco, bless his soul, seemed to be too frustrated with her and his persistent feelings to attempt to act so heartless and cold – and so inhuman. Because, for goodness' sakes, it was quite clear that he _cared_ about her now, all right? And whatever it was, self-damning and so humiliating beyond anything else he'd ever experienced, even that one year he'd been turned into a ferret, it was just _there_. And maybe it'd been there all this time and he'd just been too ignorant, or it'd just somehow grown, like a tumor, but he cared about her. And you just don't go along hurting the people you cared about. Sure, he had his moments. But he'd been in denial, remember? He didn't even know _why_ he cared about her. How a bit of his fancy fever had grown into something else more outrageous – _caring_ for a girl like _her_. It was like one of those stories, when something happens out of the blue and you hadn't seen it coming at all, and you're like, _What_ the _hell_?

His stony eyes pierced through her tender heart, and she suddenly became afraid that he could read her too well, feeling a bubbling, red mix of anger and rage at the thought. She was tired of being transparent, especially to the likes of a Malfoy. She was tired of everything.

"Well, you win," she said, her voice rising a bit. "You _win_, _Draco Malfoy_! I _can't_ be editor! I don't _want_ to be editor! I can't handle it! I've _failed!_ Isn't that what everyone wants to see? Hermione Granger, Miss She-Can-Handle-Anything-You-Bloody-Chuck-Her-Way, finally _shatter_ her cool intellect and exterior? To see her finally _fail_ at _something_? Well, you can say it now, Malfoy! I'm a _failure_, I'm an _absolute_ failure!"

Draco, however, managed to glare at her, irritated by her words. It made him feel so… cold, so predictable. And it made something squirm in him, the way her negative words were instead directed at herself this time, instead of him, but somehow he still felt as if they were still aimed at him. He knew he shouldn't care, but he did, and she was actually prodding him on now to say something mean to him. Any other day he would have been ecstatic. He would have gladly obliged her. But not today. Because she looked so angry and hurt, and somehow that just didn't seem fair.

"You can laugh, Malfoy. I know that's why you came after me. You never lose an opportunity, do you? So just cackle at me in that bastard, heartless way that you do, and leave me alone, because I am _sick_ of seeing your face _every_ bloody second of every day."

Ouch. That hurt.

Draco glowered at her, his hands tightening into fists. How dare she spit at him like so? Judge him so uncouthly? Like he was some criminal who only bestowed her pain? He'd been nice to her these last few days, damn it!

"Last time I checked, judging people wasn't in the Gryffindor bylines, Granger," he snapped at her, infuriated by what she had said to him. "And I didn't come to laugh at you – and, for _your_ bloody information, I don't favor seeing _your_ face every single day, either, Granger, but you don't see me spitting it in _your_ face!"

"On the contrary, Malfoy!" she spat.

"Oh, _shut up_!" he shouted. "What the _hell_ is wrong with you?"

"What the hell is wrong with _you_?" she fired back. "If you didn't come here to laugh at me, to kick me down, then what do you want? Do you want me to resign as Head Girl, hand in my badge and duties? Do you want to make _fun_ of me?"

"No!" he yelled, frustrated.

"Then do it now, Malfoy!" she said, completely not hearing him. "Verbally abuse me in my tormented, vulnerable state – I dare you! I sodding _dare_ you!" Hot tears welled up in her eyes. "Because there is _nothing_ in the world you can say or do to me now that could possibly make things worse!"

"Granger, would you just _shut up_?" he said, feeling his brain overheating in his skull. She was screaming his head off, and worse – it was all going in one ear and _not_ out the other. His fingers were itching to just grab her and pull her to him. Her sad, infuriated eyes were too much for his Iceman front. There was a swelling inside his chest, a deep, profound swelling, as he stared down on her face so twisted from agony and hurt.

It was almost unbearable to stand here and watch her like this. She was practically telling him to hurt her, to say something insulting to her, and yet he couldn't find it in his heart to. No, it was too full and tangled with all of these weighty feelings of guilt and longing and self-loathing because of that longing.

"Why?" she shouted. "Just do it, Malfoy! Just say it! Just—"

And then, just like Pinocchio's strings had been cut, released from his controlling binds, Draco snapped. His strings had suddenly been cut loose.

"Granger, get a _clue_!" he bellowed, before grabbing her face and smothering her lips with his.

* * *

**A/N**: Well, how nice for a guy to suddenly attack your mouth, huh? I'm sure none of us would mind, though, considering this is Draco Malfoy we're talking about, and you lot drool over him way more than is necessary! Ah, but I shouldn't be talking. But have I told you how nice **reviewing** is? It's the latest rage. Everybody's doing it. Everybody cool, anyway. ;-) So just review! 


	17. Kiss Her and Die

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: HP and Co. belong to J.K. Rowling and not to me.

**Kiss Her and Die**

As everyone experiences in their natural life, after something slightly massive happens, it is only instinctive that everyone should sit in a shell-shocked silence for a few moments. This was the case with Harry, Ginny, and Ron. Harry was looking down at his lap, and Ron and Ginny were looking at their plates.

Ron cleared his throat. "Well, uh, er –"

"I've got to go after her," Harry blurted. "I feel terrible… I've got to at least make sure she's okay."

"Harry…" Ginny said. "I don't think you should. I know you want to help her, but I think she just needs some time." She said this because she'd seen how Hermione cried. And she didn't think it was fair to impose such a sight on Harry.

"Yeah, mate, time. Just sit back down. We can visit her after dinner, all right? We'll even bring her up some Chocolate Frogs." But even Ron did not appear convinced by his This-is-how-I-say-I'm-sorry-with-chocolate routine from the way he feigned certainty with that crinkle in his ginger brow.

"No, I—" Harry desperately said to them, looking at the two for any help. "She's our best friend, Ron," he said, turning to Ron. "Were you two paying any attention? She was – furious!"

"Honestly, Harry, you act as if she's never gotten angry with us before."

"And, Harry, Hermione's reasonable, I'm sure she already—"

"No," said Harry firmly, his decision set, swinging his legs over the bench. "I've got to go. If she flings herself off of Gryffindor Tower, I won't have it."

"Oh, but Harry, I don't think she'll go as far as to kill herself!" yelled Ginny, objecting, as he briskly walked down the aisle and neared the Great Hall's doors.

"Yeah, you overestimate her suicidal antics, mate!" Ron called out, causing people to look over at them.

But Harry was already gone.

oooo

Hermione's burning eyes widened as she felt his lips on hers, his hands caressing the sides of her face forcefully.

At first, it had been shock. Just pure, utter shock. She hadn't expected it (who would've?), and she didn't think she would have ever expected it at all in her life. If someone had told her that Draco Malfoy was going to kiss her in the near future, much less _this_ way, under _these_ circumstances, she wouldn't have believed it. She would've shaken her head and then thrown it back and laughed. Hysterically. After all, why would she have wanted to believe it? Kissing him had been her worst nightmare for days.

But she now realized that thinking about it was far different than actually experiencing it. In fact, due to the fact that she was emotionally distraught, angry, and in love with him… it was actually quite nice. Of course, if only her heart wasn't beating so hard like a detonating-and-seconds-to-explosive-doom conga drum as well, because she very well figured she could do just fine without that.

She just didn't know what he was doing kissing her. She was utterly mystified. But how could she ignore the passionate pressure he was putting against her lips? And the way it sent her heart into nearly fatal convulsions? It was like the greatest heart attack ever! However, due to her still-revolving shock, she was holding her breath. But as his warm, soft mouth molded against hers, she felt the same passion and yearning that she had tightly bottled up slowly trickle out, and her mind was suddenly shrouded by a dreamy, thick mist.

Sadly, there was just no contest between his kiss and Hermione Granger's rigid, chaste ways. After all, she knew it was wrong. It was completely, utterly wrong. She even played around with the idea of giving him a good slap. But her body remained frozen, receptive to his kisses though she herself was not responding due to her dizzying shock. She couldn't move. It was as if she had grown roots to the marble floors.

This was Draco Malfoy. _Draco Malfoy_. Draco Malfoy was _kissing_ her…

Her heart was going into overdrive, pounding and pounding, and there was a white noise roaring in her ears. Then, suddenly, as if all of the binds around her chest had loosened, she felt herself sigh into his mouth and begin to kiss him back. It was all his damn fault. Why did he even have to kiss her? A snide remark would've been just fine — hell, a hug would have been much more necessary! But what was he doing here, kissing her, Hermione Granger, Muggle-born Extraordinaire? What had she done to deserve such a terrible, terrible thing?

And what was _she_ doing, kissing him back, _liking_ it?

Draco snaked his arms around her waist, pressing her closer against him, feeling a creeping fever that was flushing out every single hint of an objection inside him. He felt her fingers weave into his hair, and, with relief, felt her answer with a bizarre blazing passion that could only rival his. Inwardly he felt himself chuckle. Well, who knew the Mudblood could kiss? Certainly not him. In fact, in the far distance of his mind, he thought that he could really get used to this. Kissing her.

But, in reality, he didn't know why he had kissed her. He didn't even know how badly he had wanted to or for how long until he had finally done it. It was sad to say, but he, Draco Malfoy, a sculpture made entirely of ice and certainly appeared that way in his icy conduct, suddenly found that he had a weakness: kissing Hermione Granger. It was ridiculous, no doubt sinful and forbidden, and even pathetic… but it was true. Oh, blimey, it was true.

It was funny to think about, how they had just been engaged into an explosive argument about God-knows-what and she had been chippering on with her psychobabble again. Undoubtedly, they were the king and queen of insults and fire-backs of biting wit. But now that was all pushed back among the insignificant things of life, like squirrels or rubber bands.

And they were shocked to find that the line that had been thickly, clearly drawn out in the beginning had been inscrutably blurred, then erased, and now gone.

oooo

Harry walked through the Great Hall's doors, looking around, before he started down the corridor. The passageway was empty as his feet clicked against the dark marble floors of Hogwarts.

After living with the Dursleys' for an unbearably long amount of time, he'd somehow grown numb to any sort of verbal abuse. But he knew that this was not the case with Hermione. When he'd stayed with her over the summer, he'd met her parents. They'd been charming, sweet… but Hermione herself seemed somewhat distant to them. He didn't know why and he'd wanted to tell her (bitterly) that she was lucky enough that she still had parents that were capable of living and breathing – and he'd been very close to, one night when her parents had gone to some business party. But when she'd looked at him, taking a sip of her hot chocolate, he'd seen that little star of sadness in her eyes. He couldn't bring himself to tell her to be grateful of what she had after she'd rescued him from Privet Drive, even though he had been slightly jealous.

But he'd seen a side of her he'd never seen before, that summer. This gap in her heart and life that she hid underneath layers and layers of cleverness and books. She felt pressured after a while to live up to this golden, untainted hallucination that she helped to create, intentionally or not.

He'd sympathized with that. He knew how she felt.

It had been obvious to him and any blind fool that Hermione had been under a great amount of stress and pressure over the past weeks, and he regretted turning her down the way he had. He knew he should've let her down much more easily because he had seen the awful fragility in her eyes from the strain that had been eating at her the past month, but he had been an utter idiot and had spoken just like it. Like an utter idiot.

Harry let out a sigh, his eyes dark with determination and hope, as he started into a jog.

"Hermione?" he called out, running towards the turn of the hall.

oooo

Hermione's eyes shot open. She had heard something… a voice. She felt her heart suddenly stop as she thought of the end of the dinner and the masses of their peers that were to walk this hall…

She then pulled herself away from him, quickly, her cheeks pink and her blood pounding hotly. She was not about to let them get caught snogging in the middle of the hall by the rest of the school. And Draco, who appeared to have thought the same thing at the same time (maybe the recent connection of their lips had something to do with it), backed away at the same exact moment, as well. And as they looked at each other, in the glowing second after their heated kiss, both of them shivered.

They both stared at each other. Well, what else could they do? After snogging the last person she had ever wanted to snog (okay, that wasn't true, but whatever), her mortal enemy, the piggish cad that had nearly ruined her life and even so kept trying… what else could she do but stare at him? Her thoughts were all in a jumble now, a very chaotic jumble, and all of her thoughts circulated miscellaneously. There were thoughts of _'Damn, he's a good kisser' _and also thoughts of _'Kick him straight at the shin and run – right now!'_ And both were actually sort of true. He was a good kisser (though she'd never give him the satisfaction by telling him) and she did want to kick him really hard at the shin and run. But for the first moment of their life, they were both quiet, reeling in what they had just done, and she felt tight knots and snarls instantly form in her abdomen.

Be it of her conscience, of her infallible logic, the words left her mouth before the hopelessly in love, dim-witted ape that was Hermione Granger could stop herself.

"Malfoy," she whispered. Her voice sounded odd to her, as if stifled in her ears. As if she was trying her hardest not to hear it, either. Her throat was gravelly, feeling as if she had just swallowed down rocks and sand. "That – _that_ – we shouldn't have done that." Well, that much was obvious.

Draco looked away, suddenly feeling shame color his cheeks. His lips stung. He inwardly cringed. He wanted nothing but to just turn away, lock himself in his room and dig his face in his hands. Or, better yet, bang his head against the wall. Maybe he could knock some sense into his head, once and for all. Maybe his brains would spill out and he wouldn't have to deal with all of this rubbish anymore.

_What_ on _earth_ – _kissing_ Hermione Granger? With _tongue_? _What_?

He wanted to bang his head against the wall _now_. It couldn't have hurt more than when he looked at her. And he knew he shouldn't care, because she was a stupid Mudblood – and who cared about stupid Mudbloods? Certainly not him. He _hated_ stupid Mudbloods. But then he realized that that argument was feeling a little old now. But what really got him – what caused those pricks in his throat – was that now she knew how he felt about her. Unless he could deny it, wipe out any possibility that she would actually think he had feelings for her by acting like a complete bastard (his day-to-day thing) and insulting her. He could wipe it all out from existence. Oh! Maybe she would allow him to put a memory charm on her that would prevent any slither of recollection of this moment!

He doubted it. She would slap him a good one if he even brought it up. And he might miss if he did it when she turned her back.

But he had to _do_ something. Say something, at least. An idea then flashed in the fogginess of his head.

"Satisfactory snog, Granger," he would say. "Quite good, but I've had better. You kiss like a Muggle." It was a lie, but it would balance things out. It would get him out of this towering rut.

But he didn't. Instead, he swore, because curse words were invented for occasions such as this.

"_Fuck, _Granger" he whispered harshly, wanting to grip his hair and squint his face in agony and foolishness. It was aimed mostly to himself. He knew it was entirely his fault. He shouldn't have kissed her. He hadn't even been planning to. What in the _hell_ had he been _thinking_? Did he deliberately want to cast his soul down to eternal torment in hell?

Hermione watched him, noticing the way he couldn't look at her and his eyes were dimming with anger. All she felt like saying was: _'Well, bub, you'll be happy to know that the feeling's mutual.' _But even in that thought (which was supposed to be entirely sarcastic, yet true, if that even made sense. Oh, bugger that, nothing made sense anymore) caused its own share of hurt and loss.

"I—" she had started to say to make any of this better, to tell him that she wouldn't tell anyone, to tell him how stupid he'd been to kiss her, and maybe even ask just what the hell his problem was, but she was cut off by a loud call, a familiar voice. Someone was calling her name. It was at that moment that Hermione felt that she was _truly_ going to die.

Draco's eyes darkened, recognizing the voice, and he felt every single nerve in his body instantly freeze over.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.

"Hermione?" Harry called in disbelief at the end of the hall. His eyes were wide, shock and disbelief etched all over his pale face. But as the silence was drawn, that terrible, terrible silence, the scene he had just seen before him played, again and again in his mind like a horror movie – like the worst horror movie in the universe — and his shock was shooed away by something a little darker.

Boy, Harry Potter was one angry mofo.

He began to rapidly walk towards them, Hermione's face as white as an albino elephant and Draco's eyes turning jagged and icy.

Harry's green eyes blazed with fury as he drew his wand at just a few short paces from them. He halted in front of a horrified Hermione, who was – for the second time in her life – utterly speechless, and a scowling, angry Draco.

Draco didn't let go of Hermione, though he knew that he should to prevent both their injuries or heads bashed against the wall. He didn't know if he was now acting upon both of their death wishes, for that was what it seemed like, but there was an idea that flickered in his head that went something like him pushing her away from him, pointing at her, and saying, quite blatantly: "Hey, man, she kissed me first." But, really, he should have known this was going to happen. Potter always had the best, _impeccable_ timing. He should get, like, a golden star.

The corridor was deathly silent. And then something wonderful happened: Harry pointed the wand right at Draco's face, to which Draco responded with by staring at him down defiantly with his warrior face. And damn, Draco did have a pretty fierce warrior face.

"_You-"_ Harry seethed, _"_You let her go _right_ this bloody second, Malfoy_."_

Draco glowered at him, his eyes turning so cold that it could have frozen the sun. "No, _Potter_," he spat, feeling utmost contempt for this idiot. Who did he think he was, barking out commands? Uh, last time he checked, there was still a queen of England, and her name _wasn't_ Harry Potter. "I _don't_ think I want to."

Harry's eyes dimmed, glimmering faintly with viciousness. "_You bastard_," Harry said to him, enraged. His voice was strained, as if he was holding it back as much as he could. "Get your hands _off_ of her. _Now_. I'll _hex_ you into _oblivion,_ Malfoy, I _swear_ it, and I don't care if it'll get me bloody expelled."

Hermione looked helplessly between them, and then looking down at her waist, where Draco was holding her. She felt panic as she quickly tried to pry his arms off. But Draco, instead of letting go, held her even tighter, and she gasped fretfully. "Do you _want_ to get us killed?" she hissed to Draco.

"If I'm going down, you're going down with me," he hissed back.

She scowled at him. "Harry," she then shakily said, afraid what was to happen if she didn't stop it before it could have a chance to start. Harry looked at her, but his eyes did not soften. She saw the same venom and ill feeling, and she felt her stomach churn with disgrace. "Harry, it's not what you think. It's _okay_," she said, trying to calm him down. "He-he didn't hurt me."

"Like _hell_ he didn't!" Harry shouted, and Draco's jaw clenched.

He felt a surge of protectiveness.

He held her tighter.

"Hey, Potter, nobody's yelling here," he said.

Harry ignored him. "I _saw_ you, Hermione! I _saw_ you two with my _own_ _bloody eyes_!"

Hermione winced, looking away in disgrace. Harry turned back to Draco, jabbing his wand up against his colorless neck, while Draco muttered, "Oh, fabulous" under his breath. Meanwhile, Hermione found that she was actually _scared_ for Malfoy.

"I _mean_ it, Malfoy," he seethed. "_Let her go."_

"_No_," Draco snarled. "I don't think—"

"Draco, let me _go_!" Hermione suddenly said. "You stupid arse, let me go! And Harry, put down your wand, please! _Stop! Don't be stupid!"_

Draco glared at Hermione, who in return tried to elbow him in the rib.

"No, Hermione," Harry told her, stiff with anger. "I'd rather see him die, first."

"_No_! Harry! I _demand_ that you put down your wand _now_! Right this once, Harry! Just put it down!"

"_Malfoy, you let her go!"_ Harry shouted, ignoring Hermione. "_Just let her fucking go!"_

Draco didn't like it when people called out obscenities to him. That made him very angry. "And _why_, Potter?" Draco yelled back at him. "Jealousy robs you blind, doesn't it? You've _lost._ Didn't get your dream girl, and now you feel like bloody _shit_, don't you?"

Harry's emerald eyes flashed. "You _shut_ your mouth!" Harry retaliated. "_Go to hell, Malfoy!"_

"Ladies _first_, Potter!"

"_Stop!_" Hermione screamed. _"Just stop it!"_ Hermione furiously tried to pry his arms off of her, struggling from his tight grip and strength. "_Malfoy, let go of me! Just bloody let go of me! _You two are acting like _idiots_!"

Draco could feel her struggling to make his arms around her loosen, but he only held her tighter, bringing her closer to him. Hermione let out a strangled noise from her throat, looking up to him, slightly panicked now instead of annoyed with their male egos. He really was serious about taking her down with him.

"_Let_ me _go_," she whispered shakily yet sternly to Draco, his steely eyes penetrating through her. Her knees felt weak. Her exhales of air were ragged and cut. "Let me go, or in about one second you will feel the most excruciating pain on your foot and you will not be able to feel your toes for a month." She was doing this for his own good. Because, hello? If it wasn't already obvious, she _cared_ about him, all right? But count on Draco Malfoy to be insufferable and nearly deaf in a situation like this where she was actually trying to save from possible massive injury and he couldn't notice it.

Harry looked from Draco to Hermione. His stomach was in one vast agonizing knot. His throat held a fire. There were many questions plaguing his once rational head, and here were a few capital ones: How dare he kiss Hermione? And how could Hermione _let_ him? How could Hermione expect him to let Malfoy get away for what he had done to her? To which, sadly, he could find no answer, because he hadn't expected Hermione Granger to be capable of anything truly stupid until now. And to think he had thought that Hermione had been going to go fling herself off of the tower! _Hah_! That was actually _better_ that being caught snogging their worst enemy.

Harry felt his blood pounding, gripping his wand so tightly that his fingers were digging into the flesh of his palm. His teeth were clenched; his breaths were furious and forced.

Then he lost his temper. For real, this time.

"_Subverto!"_ Harry shouted.

He hadn't seen Draco silently unwrap his arms around Hermione.

Hermione then gasped, looking towards Harry with wide eyes and suddenly screamed as Draco's body was viciously hurled down the corridor.

Draco, seeing the look in her eyes and realizing that he wanted no more to do with this and that he just wanted to go to his room and – hell, he didn't know, he just wanted to get out of here, slowly untangled his arms from around her. He was still aware of the wand jabbing into his neck, but suddenly heard a shout at the same time as he felt tremendous, throbbing energy blast through his body and pull at him violently. His body gave way, and before he knew it, he had painfully landed on something solid and cold, his head brutally crashing against the marble floor, sending shocks of shooting pain to flash through his skull. His body felt terribly numb.

He groaned, trying to move, but the embers from the spell had scorched his nerves. He attempted to budge his arms, but his muscles felt painfully warped, the blood pumping through his veins so bitterly cold that it hurt to breathe. A foul acid filled his mouth. He felt a warm liquid flow down from his nose and the sound of his breathing was getting fainter by the second. He could hear nothing but footsteps and screaming above the roaring white noise bellowing in his ears.

He tried to open his eyes but everything was blurry and hazy with fuzzy neon colors dancing and twirling all around him. He thought he was at a circus. What fun. But then he suddenly felt an immense pain rocketing through his chest, letting out a suffering gasp, and then noticed that his heartbeats were getting more and more faint and distant… Which was not fun. Not fun at all.

He felt an unbearable haze inside his lungs and mind, and he winced. He then felt someone cradle his head off of the hard floor; making his misty and floating thoughts wobble. It was someone with dainty hands and gentle, warm fingers… He heard a voice, a soft voice full of worry.

But before he succumbed to unconsciousness, he saw a face.

Distorted, warped. She had a wild river of brown hair, with familiarly pink lips.

And then he was surrounded with a cold, abundant darkness.

oooo

Hermione sighed heavily as she took a seat next to his bed, on the verge of tears.

She knew he wasn't dead even before Madam Pomfrey had tended to him, but she had never been so terrified. Her heart had frozen for an entire moment just watching him so still and pale. He had been unconscious not even a minute later when she had gotten to him, and she'd to ask Madam Pomfrey twice if he was still breathing and even checked his pulse herself after the nurse had gotten slightly annoyed.

She knew she shouldn't care. After all, being hexed was not as terrible as the years and years of torment and promises of making her life miserable he'd so happily bestowed on her. But as she continued to watch him, so pale even compared to the colorless sheets of the hospital wing, she felt as if her heart was so heavy it would rip through her chest any minute now and drop onto the floor in a bloody, soggy mess.

And, what's for worse, she still didn't know why he had kissed her. Had he just been this… hormonally charged boy on the prowl for a snogging session? Had he seen the chance in her vulnerability and thought that she would melt right into his arms and let him do whatever he wanted to do to her – and leapt at it? Did he just kiss her because she was screeching like a banshee at him with a hearing impediment (therefore unaware of the hundreds of decibels she was giving out) and he needed to shut her up (by kissing her) before he became violently aggressive and smashed her head on the wall? Or, by some insane chance, had that kiss actually _meant_ something?

After all, those four words he had shouted at her before he had grabbed her face and crashed his lips against hers sent out a clear message. He had yelled, "Granger, get a clue!" What did that _mean_? Get a clue about _what_? About his feelings – _what_ feelings? For as far as she knew, it was more than impossible that such a self-righteous prat could look at her for all that she was and like it. Especially one that was Draco Malfoy, who had ice and iron running through his veins instead of human blood and a mechanic pumping device instead of a live heart.

Hermione hastily wiped her eyes before looking back at him again.

This was not what she had planned. Her life was about organization, meticulous schedules, study hours, color-coded charts – anything neat and easy. Anything already filtered and sorted out by herself. Sitting here at Draco Malfoy's bedside in the hospital wing was not the sort of thing that would get past her prodigious system of filtering. But somehow it had. As if it was all some sort of conspiracy! But she then unenthusiastically realized her part of the blame, for if only she had stopped herself and refrained from kissing him back. If only she had gotten Harry to put away his wand. None of this would have happened: Draco wouldn't be unconscious and hurt in the infirmary (even though, yes, he might have deserved it for being such a stubborn prat), Harry wouldn't be serving three weeks of detention with seventy-five points deducted from their own house, and she wouldn't be here… Well, she wouldn't be here, period.

Point was, she was a clever girl, and it was time she had started acting like it. She wasn't going to let anything get in the way this time – not some stupid, smirking boy, not Quidditch practices, not any small, unnecessary talk… not even love.

It was easy thinking, really. Ever since she had fallen in love everything had been nothing but trouble for her. Her once simple life had suddenly become a very, very sticky web of things like the newspaper, Draco the bastard Malfoy, making time for her best friend's Quidditch practices, being editor, fake mistletoe and kisses, a heavy conscious filled with nothing but questions of what was wrong and right. . . . and the line between love and hate, which was indeed very thin, she realized now.

Luckily, she came up with a rather fair idea. She decided that she would entirely devote herself to her studies and duties and only that. She would not waste her time thinking about cads like Draco Malfoy, and she would not waste her time on Quidditch practices that only bored her to a slow and painful death. She was going to reach her goal. She was going to pass this year with the highest grades in the whole history of Hogwarts, and nothing was going to stop her.

Her studies were her top priority. She would succeed being the editor; she would find a journalistic Quidditch Expert, she would forget all about Draco Malfoy and treat him just as he deserved to be treated, and she would graduate from this sodding school with the bloody highest grades in the entire history of Hogwarts even if it killed her.

oooo

The next morning Hermione got up extra early to check and double-check all of her assignments, not to mention go over her agenda and make sure that every single space was filled. She was to go over the plans for the Harmonium after going scouting for a journalistic and eligible Quidditch Expert after dinner, if not during. Inevitable she thought about Draco, and if he was out of the infirmary yet, but quickly brushed it away faster than you could say – well, brush.

Her long fingers promptly clasped the lid of her book bag before she took a hold of the strap and slid it over herself. She slowly smoothed the non-existent wrinkles in her robes and tightened her tie, sighing as she made her way to her door.

She briskly made her way down the corridors, the heels of her black Mary Janes clicking against the marble floors. Her eyes were set straight ahead, ignoring the few people chatting behind her. Her hand tightened on her strap, her gaze unwavering.

She was among the first to sit down at the Gryffindor table, with Ginny, Harry, and Ron still absent due to her early start. She set her book bag down beside her, the leather bag occupying the seat next to her, as she reached for an orange and set her fingers to work. Hermione looked up and around the Great Hall with only a few mumbling conversations here or there as she saw more of her peers slip inside. Looking back down, somehow feeling awfully miserable, she continued to peel her orange. Then she realized that she was too busy to feel depressed.

It was about twenty minutes later when Harry and Ron arrived. Ginny was, as of yet, nowhere to be seen.

Harry took the seat in front of her along with Ron, and they exchanged worried glances. Hermione ignored those looks on their faces as she merely bid them good morning. They replied cheerfully and tried to make conversation, but their meager attempts proved to be futile. She heard Harry sigh in front of her.

"Hermione… are you all right?" Harry asked her quietly.

Hermione didn't look up as she had brought out her book and had started reading for their lesson next, next, next week. Hermione knew that Harry hadn't told Ron the whole incident, and only that he had practically blasted Draco to oblivion (which she knew undoubtedly gained him a hearty high-five), thus the detention and house points deduction, but nothing about the situation of her and Draco. Hermione had been glad of that, and Harry had already profusely apologized to her, but they weren't necessarily on "okay" terms just yet. She was still quite disturbed with everything. Even him.

Where did he get off hexing people in corridors, anyhow? Shouldn't he be saving up at least a tad of his energy for the Dark Lord?

"Splendid, Harry," she said. She flipped the page.

Harry gave Ron a look of concern and desperation, and Ron mumbled to himself as he reached inside his pocket. Hermione heard the crinkling of paper, and as much as she wanted to look up due to her monstrous curiosity, she knew she shouldn't. She kept her eyes on the page, but her eyes reread the same line over and over again.

"_The Goblin Wars started in 1460, the Durlam Goblins' allies being the village of giants and many of the wizards and witches living in their border, while the fairies had also gathered their own army, consisting of the powerful sorcerers and sorceresses that looked to them for their magical tonics and potions."_

She heard a low muttering as she got the hint that he was trying to smooth out his paper as she heard more faint crinkling.

"_The Goblin Wars started in 1460, the Durlam Goblins' allies being the village of giants and many of the wizards and witches living in their border, while the fairies had also gathered their own army, consisting of the powerful sorcerers and sorceresses that looked to them for their magical tonics and potion,"_ her eyes read again. Still he was not done, and she could hear Harry whispering to him.

"_The Goblin Wars started in 1460, the Durlam Goblins' allies being the village of giants and many of the wizards and witches living in their border, while the fairies had also gathered their own army, consisting—"_

"Er, Hermione?" she heard him say to her. She stopped her eyes, mentally sighing.

"Yes, Ron?" she answered without looking up.

"I-um-I've got a little-I've got something to—"

Hermione looked up. She raised a brow at him, seeing the still slightly crumpled parchment in his hands. Ron sighed, and she could see that he was turning a bit pink in the cheeks.

"Well?" she asked impatiently. "I've got to study, Ron, and I've got to think over the first issue of the Harmonium and also look for the Quidditch Expert. I've got things to do and I haven't got time to spare."

Ron sighed. He held out the paper to her. "Hermione, well, that's what this is about," he told her.

Hermione cautiously eyed the parchment as if it was a poisonous muffin. "What?" she asked, confused.

"You said you needed a Quidditch Expert who was willing to write. Here's my sample and application."

Hermione's eyes flickered to Ron from the paper, whose face was ridiculously red, and gave him a look. "I'm a bit suspicious," she said lowly. "You aren't just doing this because—"

"No, no," Ron interrupted her, shaking his head. "I was a bit late because… well, I didn't know there was an opening for that spot, and I didn't know you were going to have a Quidditch section, being you're the editor and all, and I… I've been busy," he said, flushing a bit brighter.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him before taking the parchment from his hand slowly. She gave him a look, before looking down to read it.But as she read the sample he had given to her, explaining why Quidditch was a bit misunderstood in some cases (she guessed he had had her in mind while writing this), she got the feeling that he might actually be the one. He made some good points, good arguments that not even she could retaliate to, and it was true he did know a lot about Quidditch, knowing that he and Harry talked about it almost every minute of every moment they were not in class. But of course, she knew Ron predictably still thought about it during class, for she often caught him drawing up plays on his parchments instead of notes. At the end of class she would see about ten Golden Snitches on it.

But she was rather shocked. He was a good writer. Not fantastic, or mighty excellent, but fairly, fairly good. She had a twisting feeling in her gut that she would not find anyone better than Ron. It was surprising.

She sighed mentally, undoubtedly overwhelmed inside, guardedly looking up at him from the paper. Though his handwriting was a bit messy in places and he had some misspelled words, not to leave out the ink blots everywhere (which indicated he hadn't taken the time or effort to erase them with the magical quill-ink-remover she had bought him for his birthday last year); she knew he was quite something.

But, still, she was suspicious. This was Ron, the boy who hated every class, the boy who didn't take notes but doodled Quidditch plays and Golden Snitches on his parchments; the boy who complained at every Potions lesson and needed help with every assignment that could be easily done within a good twenty minutes. He had never shown an interest in writing at all… and then, all of a sudden, he wanted to be in the paper? Something very, very fishy was going on… and there was the noticeable stench of it wafting about in the air.

"Well done," she simply said as she put down his parchment and looked him straight in the eye. Oddly, while she could read her temperamental and predictable friend, she could not see a glimmer of guilt in his light blue eyes.

Ron smiled in relief and he elbowed Harry, who was drinking out of his goblet, which caused him to make a choking sound in his throat and start coughing.

Ron, however, was not paying any attention to Harry, who was turning a faint shade of pink from his coughing.

Hermione furrowed her brows at the two of them.

"Hear that, Harry?" he said proudly. "She agrees it's well done." Ron turned and looked at him, as if suddenly noticing that his dear friend was coughing uncontrollably. "Blimey," he said to Harry, "are you all right?"

Harry sent him a glare, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

When Harry had ceased his coughing and the attention was brought back to Ron, his sample/application, and Hermione, she cleared her throat promptly, looking back down at it.

"Now," she said, "why do you want to be on the paper?"

Ron smiled eagerly. "Because I just recently discovered my love for writing while doing Seamus' Transfiguration essay."

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him.

"Why-why did you do Seamus' assignment?" both Harry and Hermione asked in unison. "You can barely finish yours without breaking a sweat!" Hermione said to him.

Ron frowned at her. "I lost a bet," Ron informed her, bitterness in his voice.

"What bet?" they both asked.

"Just a bet," said Ron, scowling, silently telling them that it was not up for discussion. Then he sobered again, grinning boyishly. "So what about it, Hermione? Am I in or what?"

Hermione still gaped at him, befuddled, then looked back down at his paper. "No-_no_ Ron!" she stammered, still in obvious confusion. "_No_!"

Ron's smile vanished from his face.

"You-this isn't _you_!" she said to him. "I _know_ you don't like writing! You don't! You can barely do your essays and assignments without giving up within just ten minutes of it, and you just – you were _never_ into writing! It's really hard to believe that you'd just give me – give me _this_," she said, waving his paper hysterically, "_now_, at such a critical time, after what happened, and honestly, I know you and Harry had made this plan" – she shot a glare at Harry – "because it _reeks_ of a scheme all over!"

"That isn't it, Hermione!" said Ron, getting angry. "Harry didn't talk me into this, and no, there is no plan! And yes, maybe I've never liked writing, but have you ever considered that maybe that was because we've never gotten a chance to write a bloody essay about _Quidditch_?"

"I don't need any help!" she fumed. "I can find a Quidditch Expert on my own, and I don't need my friends applying for the bloody job because they feel sorry for me, because bloody hell, I am tired of being seen as-as some damsel in distress! Because I don't need your help! I may have asked for it before, but you clearly turned me down, and I don't ask twice!"

Ron's eyes darkened, as he suddenly stood up, his face warped into an enraged glower. "Get over yourself, Hermione!" he shouted at her, livid. "I didn't do this for you, you spaz, I did it for _myself_! And, maybe I was trying to help you, considering that you've been acting liked a damned miserable fool all week long, but do you think I'd do this all for you? I _don't think so_! Hermione, if you're going to ignore your friends and act like some soulless zombie, and then explode at me for trying to do one good thing right, then maybe you don't deserve it! You seem very intent on doing this all by yourself, so good luck finding yourself a Quidditch Expert that can put up with _you_ all year long!"

And with that, Ron stepped over the bench and stormed out of the Great Hall – but not before grabbing his plate and biting into an apple, glaring at her.

She could feel people staring at her, curious and puzzled, as she merely stared at the place Ron had just stood.

Harry was quiet, surprised at what had happened. He then looked around uneasily, seeing people looking over at them and murmuring. He turned back to Hermione, who was pale in the face and still staring at the now empty seat. Harry could see the bags under her eyes and the way her complexion seemed much more dull and pale, like those of a person who hadn't much sleep and had too much of fretful worry. He could see what she was doing to herself and what she was feeling slowly eat her up, inside out. Harry was scared for her.

"Hermione?" he whispered. "I… are you… are you all right? Ron'll be fine, don't worry, I mean – he's a sport." He knew he was going to have to talk to Ron straight after this.

Hermione didn't answer.

Harry looked at her worriedly, but he caught something and he looked past her. He saw a cold-looking Draco Malfoy behind her in the Slytherin table, his eyes steady on his best friend. Harry glowered at him.

"Hermione?" Harry tried again. "Hermione? I—"

Just then, Hermione grabbed her book in front of her and shoved it in her book bag, along with the parchment Ron had given her. She quickly stood and didn't spare any time doing so. "I'm going to go," she told Harry, but Harry could see the guilt and hurt in her eyes with her obvious attempt to cover up. "I've got things to do." And before Harry could say another word, she had already turned on her heel and started walking in a brisk pace down the hall.

A pair of steely, silver eyes followed after her, and so did a pair of emerald.

"Hermione-Hermione wait!" Harry called after her, quickly grabbing his stuff and launching after her.

Draco watched as Harry Potter ran after his so-called "best friend" and kept his gaze on the Great Hall's wooden doors even after the pair of them had disappeared behind it. Feeling his chest tighten with jealousy, that was he realized. Bloody hell, he really _did_ have a thing for Hermione Granger. Like, a _big_ thing. A potentially problematic _thing_ that could turn his whole reputation inside out – and ruin him for life. It was so _wrong_. Even on the borders of sadist behavior. Because, since when had he become jealous of _Potty_? _That_ scarface?

Sadly, he had had plenty of time to contemplate in the infirmary for Madam Pomfrey had insisted on keeping him long after he had finally regained consciousness. He tried to think of other matters: like his mother back in the manor, and the plans they had been trying to carry out… but it only made him even more frustrated, because she was stupidly tacked in his mind. He remembered their kiss and couldn't help but know that what he had felt with her had been something entirely different from when he had kissed those past girls at the Malfoy Manor Balls before. And though he would be caught dead before ever speaking this aloud, it had felt… nothing like he expected it would feel, kissing a mudblood and all – it definitely beat the fish out of the water, that was all he could say. And what was worse was that he had a rather strong feeling that he could've kept on kissing her that way forever.

But somehow, though he was sure she hated him more than anything at the moment and he was rather sore at her as well (because he _was_ the one who had been blasted all the way to the other end of the corridor), the fact that he just wanted to snog her and somehow even talk to her regardless of all those things worried him.

Because – and not saying that he was, just a hypothetical question – could Malfoys even fall in love? His father and mother weren't a subject of any love at all, just something of his father's greed and having the most beautiful wife. That went for all his relatives, too. "Love" was a foreign word amongst them – but could he blame them? They were all wicked pricks with an insatiable desire for power. Malfoys didn't love. They couldn't. Draco was even convinced it would _kill_ them.

Could he be any different? Because, hey, he was sure Lucius had installed some sort of anti-loving device inside him when he had been born.

He looked down at the small parchment in his hands, ripped around the edges. He had found this while in the hospital wing, folded in a haste but prompt manner. The words on it had been quite hurried, judging from the ragged loops and sharp lines, but he recognized it all just the same. It was an apology from Hermione Granger, and yes, all it was was an apology – all it contained were two words: "I'm sorry." And he even sort of wanted to yell at her and call her all of these mean things because he felt that he deserved a little bit more than I'm Sorry for getting the living pulp blasted out of him courtesy of her nutty, fanatical best friend.

Draco sighed.

Honest, he had never gotten hospitalized up for kissing a girl before. Leave it all up to Hermione Granger to mess that all up.

**Review!**


	18. Ronald Weasley and the Harmonium

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: Me? Own Harry Potter? Better check again.

After spontaneous kissing comes the Blame Game. We all know it.

Thanks to my own blue-haired fairy, **Johnnie Blue**. First-ever fan of Basketcase, so that means she's even more delusional than I am. :-)

**Ronald Weasley and the Harmonium**

Hermione kept herself very busy that day, secretly fretting but never allowing it to show. She had gone around the hallways (despite the curious and suspicious glances sent her way in the corridors that had risen from the spat between her and Ron during breakfast at the Great Hall) asking her peers very politely if they'd like to be part of the paper and if they'd be interested in the position of the Quidditch Expert. Unfortunately, they all turned her down. Each and every one of them.

Now, then, boys and girls, this was one of the ideal moments where one would break down into hysterical, high-pitched crying in Moaning Myrtle's loo. It was also one of those ideal moments where one would slightly consider the idea of launching one's body off of the Astronomy Tower – for everybody has morbid thoughts like those when life really hands you the poo poo platter, so don't even try to deny it. Anyway, this was just a really terrible time for Hermione. An absolute low that just kept letting her sink, and sink, like quicksand. Because she'd made the absolute mistake of kissing Draco Malfoy – and getting caught! –, sending him to the hospital wing with nearly a concussion (on the same bloody _day_), deducting points from her own House and appointing detention to her own best friend, and still hadn't gotten the rotten job done of getting a Quidditch expert. Oh, and there was also the fact that she'd also probably lost her friendship with her other friend as well.

Bugger, this was really depressing.

She headed up to her room; tired and exhausted though the day was barely progressing into noon. As soon as the chatter and clamor of the students faded away, she slouched her shoulders and closed her eyes very tightly, frowning at herself and the very unfortunate situation she had gotten herself into, before halting at the portrait and leaning against the wall. She let out ragged deep breaths. Sort of like Lamaze breathing – because it helps you with stress sometimes, you know, not just popping out babies.

"Dear?"

A familiar feminine voice interrupted her thoughts as she slowly opened her eyes and looked ahead of her. The corridor was empty. Curious and confused, Hermione pushed herself off of the wall and looked behind her, and then looking towards the end of the corridor, again.

"Oh, no, child, over here."

Hermione stopped, looked beside her, and found the woman in the portrait smiling at her. She was wearing pearly and snow-white robes with an emerald pendant hanging provocatively down her neck. Her dark eyes echoed her black hair.

Hermione just stared at her before she swallowed and replied. "Well, hullo," she said hoarsely. She cleared her throat.

"Are you all right there, Head Girl?" the woman said to her, never having learned her name. "You look a bit pale. Oh, and tired, too, now that I have a much closer look. You ought to take a nap once you get into your room."

Hermione actually laughed at this. It was really funny to her, though. Then again, people always told her that she had the strangest sense of humor.

"Nap! What a nice joke."

"Nonsense, dear. Everyone's got time to take a little break, and it looks to me like you really need it. Take my advice and rest. I know I may be just a portrait, but I can tell you this for a fact: I wish I'd rested all I could whilst I was still there. It's damned uncomfortable to sleep in a chair everyday, especially when it doesn't have the softest cushion."

Hermione nodded, though not really considering taking her advice. "Sure thing," she lied, before announcing the password.

"All right, then, I hope you have a nice rest," she said, as the portrait swung open.

"Right," Hermione said, before stepping in and making her way across the common room. "Rest," she scoffed. "_Honestly."_

oooo

So.

The march of death.

She nervously and anxiously clutched his parchment in her hands, walking through the empty hallways. She knew what was to come, and she knew that she deserved it, so she could only prepare herself from the wrath of the smug and Hah!-I-knew-it-I-knew-it childish Ronald Weasley. She silently wondered which one he was going to throw in her face this time: "I _knew_ you couldn't make it without us, Hermione" or "I _swear_, sometimes you think too much of yourself" or even "Face it. You need your Protectors. Innit that neat? Protect_ors_."

And, no. It wasn't that neat, Ronald.

Before this all she'd done was work, work, work. She had edited and proofread all of the articles sent to her room, even observed Colin's photographs that he had owled the very minute she had taken a seat to start. Dean was indeed a very good writer, his sentences structured impressively and his facts accurate to the spot, and she was very grateful for that because she never liked it when people over-dramatized things… which brought her onto the Gossip Column appropriately named "_Hogwarts: I Spy…"_ by Parvati and Lavender. They had a big amount of information they had sent in, including who had spent their special love-adorned holiday with who, and who had been seen alone.

They had even bothered to set up some statistics on the singing roses this year, tallying them up and claiming Harry and Draco were tied for the most roses. Of course, Lavender and Parvati did not manage to leave out Hermione, for which she was very angry about. If those two had been anywhere near Hermione when she'd first proofread the piece, they would have been hospitalized a long time ago. And in the process of getting another nose.

And then there had been Ginny's advice column, which was very lengthy, indeed, but very good. It turned out that Ginny had anonymously set up a letter-slip-in box inside the Gryffindor girls' dormitories. And as expected, for every girl here had at least some sort of dilemma at least twice a week, the box had been filled up by the end of the school week. After taking it back when the dormitories had been empty due to supper in the Great Hall, she shrunk the box, slipped it in her pocket and snuck into the Meeting Room to do her replies there.

Ginny chose the most common problems to answer to, or the best and most complex that just absolutely pleaded at her for help and was obviously filled with desperation. Usually they concerned boys. The occasional fancy on a teacher (Oh, Hermione shuddered to think about that one!). Rarely anything concerning schoolwork (which Ginny didn't even bother to _read_). And, well, Ginny wanted to _Ginnyfy_ just about everybody, so she wrote as many replies as she could, forcing Hermione to give her a whole page instead of a measly column. How manipulative.

But there was still one page that needed an occupation… the Quidditch page. That was what she was to resolve once she reached the Gryffindor common room. She didn't know whether she was going to beg if he refused, but if that was what it took, even though her dignity would very, _very_ strongly object, she would do it. She was desperate, and though she'd never really admit that at any other time, this was a crucial situation that needed an immediate resolution, and she knew that if she didn't seek help, the newspaper, and most especially she, would end up an utter, utter disaster. Flooding somebody else's loo sort of disaster. Accidentally killing somebody with a waffle iron sort of disaster. You get the point.

Now, Hermione Granger wouldn't ever grovel or beg, but it seemed as if the fear of letting Dumbledore, the other professors, and her peers down was getting more and more menacing and larger with every minute that passed. She was on the brink of her sanity now (what little sanity she'd started this school year out with, anyway. There used to a time when she'd had _all_ of her sanity. But that time passed a _looooong_ time ago). Now that nothing was to distract her – no Quidditch practicing, Ginny's silly attempts to get her and Malfoy together, or even the excruciating feeling that came with the utter burden of "falling in love" (well, bollocks to that!) – she knew that she just _had_ to get this right. And if not that, then above and beyond. Hermione was a perfectionist and an overachiever, and that meant that she _was _– _even_ if she lost an arm or a leg – going to get this newspaper launch _right_.

She descended the stairs, the sound of the creaky antique stairways groaning beneath her as she could hear the stairs alongside of her moving; she let her mind wander to the more important matters of the newspaper and what was to be done.

She had owled some of the stores over in Hogsmeade, calling attention and asking them if they'd like to send her any advertisements to feature on the paper, and luckily, they had sent her a bundle. Though Hermione was sure that they had thought their newspaper was juvenile and probably full of nonsense (which it was not, and will not, as she would be making _sure_ of that as long as she was editor), they couldn't pass at an opportunity to escalate their sales, since obviously most of their adolescent buyers were from Hogwarts. Oh, and Fred and George's shop had sent in some as well, with a free package of candy for her, which she had found very endearing… unlike their brother, Ronald, whom she found _not_ so endearing.

'_Who knew?'_ she thought to herself. _'Chocolates really _are_ better than boys.'_

Hermione stepped up onto the final stair, making her way across to the Gryffindor Portrait.

Figuring that her mental checklist would have to be cast away for now, she cleared her head, stopping before the Fat Lady. Hermione held the parchment in her hands, curiously looking up at the scene before her. It seemed as if the Fat Lady was speaking with a friend of hers inside the portrait, (a gossiper with sharp ears, no doubt) a small fairy with electric blue hair and sparkling translucent wings. Her small dress seemed to be weaved with fraying bits of the stars as it shone and glittered though the light in this area was awfully dim. She looked like one of the dolls she used to play with when she'd been little. One of the really beautiful ones that in a span of one month turned raggedy and headless.

Intrigued, Hermione merely stood and listened, staring at the small, charming fairy and the Fat Lady who seemed to be too interested and lost in the update that she didn't realize that Hermione had been standing there for about a minute now.

"Oh _really_, now?" the Fat Lady asked, eyes wide. "Is that true?"

"Everyone seems to believe so," the fairy replied in a high-pitched voice. "And Winston hasn't been out from his house since."

"Oh my," the Fat Lady said, shaking her head, looking sadly at her tiny friend. "That's terrible."

"It is," agreed the fairy.

"Now, I've heard there's something with the Malfoys. Do you have any news about that?"

Hermione froze, her eyes taking in the expression of the Fat Lady: pure fascination and bliss to be caught up with all the gossip and rumors again. Hermione found herself also dangerously curious, and wondered if everything was all right with Malfoy's family and if someone had finally caught Lucius or any of the remaining Death Eaters.

The little fairy furrowed her azure brows, tucking a blue strand behind her ear. She pouted her lips, thinking and tapping her chin in thought. Her wings glittered and shimmered as she fluttered them about. "Hmm," said the fairy, still thinking. "I've heard a _bit_ of news… news… hmm… Malfoys… _Malfoys_… Of _course!"_ she finally shouted, raising her hand in the air as if she'd just won a prize. "_Lucius!_ Lucius _Malfoy_, am I right?"

Hermione's eyes widened, and though it would be the right thing to just interrupt them and walk in to get the business over with between her and Ron, she found the urge to stay and find out what was happening to be too strong.

There was a reason she was called nosy, you know.

"Yes, dear," the Fat Lady nodded, wild intrigue sketched all over her face. "What about him?"

"Well… I've heard he's still fighting with the Ministry, rising up evidence and such to prove he's not a Death Eater, but he won't show his arm, saying that he _had_ been a Death Eater, but that was long ago and he had _retired_," the fairy snorted, rolling her eyes and looking very skeptical. "Says that he hasn't been anywhere _near_ the killings… but it's already too quite suspicious, considering that he doesn't want to show his arm. But I've also heard that his claims are also pretty convincing…."

Hermione's eyes widened, suddenly looking down, frantically and carefully searching her mind. She couldn't remember reading anything about any killings. But then she remembered that her subscription to the Daily Prophet had ended quite some time ago and because of her hectic schedule she hadn't been able to renew it yet. But – Harry would know, right? Why hadn't he told her?

"But his son. . . . I've been staying with Belinda Bernts for a bit, up over by Ravenclaw entrance, and I've heard some things. I heard his father's quite upset with him, you know, for not bringing more honor to the family by joining the Dark Lord…"

"Yes, that young Malfoy's quite a bright one, though awfully nasty at times. I'd hear a bit of fuss about him at times, from the girls, they all think he's quite fit." The Fat Lady chuckled. "There _are_ a few complaints, from and the girls _and_ boys, but mostly just the boys. He is rather too hostile, that one. I wonder if he got it from his father..."

"Mm-hmm," agreed the fairy, nodding her head.

"He's quite the student. Head Boy, you know, second highest grades. I hear he and his mother are quite close. Any news from her?"

"No, not that I can remember. Don't ever hear much from her anymore. She just stays in the manor all day long. No one ever claims to have seen her since… _you-know-when_. But, who knows? I wouldn't be surprised if she'd built some sort of paradise inside there. It'd be much nicer in there than to go out into the streets. Fuss and gossip and such. It's not so nice."

Hermione cleared her throat, calling their attention, and the fairy and Fat Lady turned their heads in surprise.

"Hi," Hermione said hoarsely, nervously crumpling the parchment in her hands.

"Mmm," the fairy said, peering at her. "An _eavesdropper_, am I correct?"

Hermione ignored her, staring straight at the Fat Lady. "Sorry to overhear, but I was just wondering… when did the killings happen? And what… what happened?"

The Fat Lady gave her a sympathetic smile. "Happened just about three weeks ago," she answered. "All Muggle-borns, out in Diagon Alley. Five were attacked by Death Eaters, all at the exact same time. Two died, and the other three were just released from St. Mungo's yesterday. Terribly sorry you had to hear about it this way, dear. If you'd only gave us a tiny cough or such, we'd have let you get on your way."

"It's all right," said Hermione, though her throat was awfully dry now, worry still coursing through her veins. "I... I just, my subscription to the Daily Prophet ended a while ago," she said sadly. "I haven't been able to keep up."

The fairy narrowed her eyes at her. "Are you in Gryffindor?" the fairy curiously asked her. "I've been here for about two days and I haven't seen you come by at all. Strange," she said, cocking her head to the side, "you _look_ like a Gryffindor. _Maybe_ a Ravenclaw, but I've been there too and I'm _positive _you're not from there."

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but the Fat Lady got to it first.

"Actually, she's Head Girl," the Fat Lady proudly said. "From Gryffindor. Along with the Malfoy child—_she's_ got the highest grades, whilst his is second best. Oh, dreadfully sorry," the Fat Lady said to Hermione. "I forgot to introduce you two. Miss Granger, this is Liezl," she said, motioning to the small fairy. "And Liezl, this is Miss Hermione Granger, Gryffindor Head Girl."

Hermione nodded, greeting to her, as the small fairy nodded her head in realization that she was in Gryffindor. "_Oh!_ Head Girl! Of _course!"_ Liezl laughed. "Oh, and it's pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," Hermione said back. She looked down, saw the crumpled parchment in her hands, and sighing wearily, started to smooth it out again.

Stupid neurotic tendencies.

"Say, Head Girl… what do you know about the little Malfoy bloke? You must work with him a lot, right? Good friends?"

"Actually, no," Hermione said quickly, not looking up and finding her hands working much quicker and frantically on smoothing out the paper. "Not at all."

"Aw," commented Liezl, shaking her head. "Shame. But, nevertheless, have you ever heard him talk about his mother? What about his father? Or anything else? What about the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters? _Oh!_ And also, what about—"

"No," Hermione finally said aloud, firmly, the topic of Draco already making her tense and uneasy. "No, I haven't. I don't talk to him."

"Yes, you do," Liezl said stubbornly. "You work together. You have to."

"I haven't heard anything," she sternly said, feeling the sturdy and pointy wrinkles in the parchment.

The blue-haired fairy raised an eyebrow at her before sighing in defeat. "Fine, suit yourself," she said. "But you'd better look out for him, Head Girl."

Hermione's blood ran cold, her body stiffening instantly. She looked up at the fairy, but she just gave her a knowing look.

"He just might be in danger, for all we know."

Hermione gaped at her, her eyes wide and her breath became caught in her throat.

"Wha—?" but, suddenly, the parchment fell from her hands, and she bent down to pick it up. "What do you me—?"

Hermione looked back up to the spot the fairy had been, and she was gone. Baffled and confused, Hermione looked helplessly around the painting, and then looked down the corridor, but the fairy was nowhere to be seen. "Where did she go?" Hermione breathlessly asked the Fat Lady, who just looked down at her worriedly. "What did she mean?"

"Oh my, I don't have a clue," the Fat Lady said. "Y'know, she comes and goes all she likes. Y'know, fairy dust." She coughed, pounding her chest firmly. "_Damn_ that fairy dust."

"You're positive?" asked Hermione, worry and panic restricting her intake and outtake of air. Her thoughts were all clustered inside her brain.

"Yes. Oh, and you mustn't worry about her, or that young Malfoy. She often says nonsense to scare people sometimes. Don't get so worked up about it — she probably just made it up to tickle her fancy. Everyone says she's got a whirlwind in that mind," she chuckled. "_Charming_ fairy, though. Really. Muggles and those 'fairytales' say that all fairies are nice, and pretty and polite… I just can't believe how those Muggles muddle _everything_ up," she sighed. "But that Liezl, she's a good fairy. One of the nicest, you know."

"Well, that's nice," said Hermione hurriedly, not really interested. "But are you sure he isn't in any danger? What about with his father, Lucius? Or the Dark Lord? Or what about his mother?"

"Oh dear girl, stop your fretting. It's all a waste, you know. She's a trickster. _All_ fairies are, because they're related to the pixies. I say, Muggles think pixies and fairies are the same, but they're wrong, because, see, back in the day, around the 1200's or so, there was this—"

"Actually," interjected Hermione, eager to put this all behind, remembering Ron and the urgent situation she was in, though that thing about Draco was still stubbornly pestering her, "I've got to dash. I've got some important business inside the common room."

"Oh, I know, dear, but see, it's really fascinating—"

Hermione cut her off, grinning weakly, trying not to be so impolite. "We already studied fairies and pixies back in sixth year," she said. Her palms were beginning to sweat.

"Oh?" The Fat Lady asked, and Hermione nodded. The Fat Lady frowned sadly. "Oh, well, then, I suppose that's fine. That's what they're _supposed_ to do here, anyway. _Teach_. . . ."

"Right. Um, _Fluentum Solaris_," she said. The Fat Lady nodded, and the portrait door opened.

"And remember!" she heard her shout. "_Not_ a fretting matter!" Hermione chuckled nervously, biting her lip, switching her hand that held the parchment and wiped them on her dark trousers. After she was done with that, she switched with the other. She heard it close behind her, as she sighed heavily, trying to erase the burden of Draco being in danger, Lucius, the Dark Lord, or Harry's safety off of her mind.

She looked towards the entrance to the boys' dormitories before looking at her wristwatch. Just then, the big hand finally moved to the large six, and as if right on cue, she heard a familiar pair of voices coming from up the stairs. Hermione waited, swallowing hard, setting her face seriously and unclenching her jaw.

Two figures emerged from the stone staircase, one boy with very dark raven hair, and another with a shock of red hair. They were still talking, both having not noticed her yet, before Harry glanced up and saw her. He froze, grabbing Ron's arm, and Ron stopped, too.

"_Merlin_, Harry. We've got to go up and see when the Quidditch practice times the _exact_ time they're posted up, so we can sign up for the best—"

Hermione cleared her throat, and Ron jumped, startled. He looked at her, and then frowned, raising a ginger brow. Harry let go of his arm as Hermione greeted them.

"Hello, Harry. Hello, Ron," she said to each of them. "Pleasure to see you both."

"Look, Hermione," Ron said to her, his freckled face looking irritated and very, very impatient. "We're actually busy right at the moment, so we'd really appreciate it if you'd take your debate tactics and go elsewhere for the time being, all right?"

Harry elbowed him, but Ron just glared at him.

Hermione sighed, telling herself that she was _not_ going to sink down to his level this time and get angry. She _had_ to get things done. An angry Hermione was not exactly very inviting or appealing to people, therefore it would convince them that they, in fact, did _not_ want to work with her, much less in a position _underneath_ her. She tried to smile at him, and succeeded. Somewhat. She probably looked deranged doing it.

"I… I came here to apologize," she said quietly, and both Harry and Ron stared at her wide-eyed. She scowled at both of them. "Now, don't get the wrong idea. This _will_ indeed be very rare, and after this, no apologies from me will be necessary unless it is, but I _am_ a rational person and I do realize that I wasn't being very fair when I… went off on you, in the Great Hall."

" '_Went off'?_" snorted Ron. "You _exploded_! Did you see your _face_?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, feeling her annoyance getting the best of her. Harry coughed loudly and elbowed Ron again, this time so very hard against the ribs that Ron winced.

"Right," he said, a look of pain flickering across his face. "Sorry. That was uncalled for."

Hermione nodded, still glaring at him. "All right. Look, You _are_ a good writer, you're perfect for the spot, and I'm sorry that I got unjustly angry with you. Things have just been very hectic and hard for me, and I was just tired –"

"And mental," snorted Ron.

"—I hope you'll consider my apology and I also hope that you'll reconsider the position," she said, looking him straight in the eye, "of the Quidditch Expert on the paper."

There was silence as they waited for answer. Ron was still looking at her strangely, as if suspicious of her proposition and trying to decide if he should at the same time.

"Hermione, I'm a very busy bloke, and I just have to say for the moment, considering your terrible timing, that I'll _think_ about it but—" But then Harry coughed again, putting a hand up to his mouth, and attempted to elbow Ron for the second time, but Ron saw it this time and slapped his elbow away. "All _right_, fine," he said irritably. "I accept." Hermione's brows rose at his words, and he sighed. The annoyed expression almost vanished from his face as he managed to grin at her. "Both. The apology _and_ the position. You're forgiven."

All at once, it seemed as if the horribly heavy burden set upon her shoulders lifted, and left her feeling as if she could fly… well, that is, almost. Hermione sighed, finally cracking a smile that had been too rare since the incident with Draco and Harry, relieved. She couldn't even remember feeling relieved until this single moment.

"Oh, thank Merlin, Ron," she sighed, happily. "Thank you."

Ron just smiled at her. "Not a problem, Hermione. But do realize, it'll be harder the next time you screw up. It was _only_ that easy because Harry over here," he jerked a thumb beside him, "has a bony elbow and was bloody hurting me with his _elbowing_, and we have to get down by the Quidditch Pitch to see the available times for practice. And, well, knowing that you have your very extensive vocabulary and whatnot, I figured it would be better for all three of us if I just forgave you. Quick, easy, convenient."

Harry rolled his eyes beside him, and Hermione just gave him a look, still a slight smile on her face. "Well, thanks, Ron. You can get on with your Quidditch business now, but one thing I've got to tell you: there's a meeting tomorrow for all the prefects and staff, all right? Just meet me, Ginny, and Dean outside the portrait after classes. I'll owl you."

Ron nodded as he and Harry had already been making their way to the doorway. "Sure thing, Hermione," he said. "I'll see you later."

"You can come with us, if you'd like, Hermione," Harry said to her as the passageway opened and Ron had already stepped through.

Hermione shook her head, but grinned a small grin as a sign of her gratitude. "No thanks, Harry. I've got some more things to do. But good luck with your new plays."

Harry nodded. "I'll see you at dinner. And don't overwork yourself, okay, Hermione?"

A loud scoff could be heard from outside the portrait.

Hermione, rolling her eyes, just smiled and waved him off. Harry gave her a small wave back before heading out of the portrait hole as well, closing momentarily after he stepped out. Not before, however, she heard a loud _smack_!

"_Ow_! What in the bloody hell was _that_ for?" came the muffled voice of Ron.

"Can't you just you shut up sometimes?" she heard Harry say, but he was half-laughing.

"Yeah right, you just wanted an excuse to hit me, you prick."

"Well, you did eat the last brownie last night."

oooo

Classes seemed to run faster than usual the next day, and it appeared as if every glance she took at the clock, more and more time had passed than she had realized. Soon, it had been time for lunch, and soon, it had been time for the meeting.

Ron had not forgotten and actually showed up (miracle! With an armful of Chocolate Frogs, as well, which was just _shocking_), and he, Ginny, Dean, and Hermione had walked to the meeting hall, lightly chatting with each other. She did see the worried looks that Ginny had been sending her and noticed how she had tried to steer the conversation towards her most of the time, and Hermione only then realized that she hadn't talked to Ginny at all these last few days. Which was kind of sad, really, because before she and Ginny had talked an awful lot. Mostly Ginny just pestered about boys and her nonexistent love life (so nonexistent that it should have been considered a love_less_ life)(Okay, that was lame) but she had been all right.

"Hermione? _Hermione?"_

Hermione was thrown off of her train of thought as she finally realized that they were already in front of the Meeting Room. Hermione looked around and her eyes landed on a concerned Ginny in front of her, her arms crossed sternly. They were the only ones there for it seemed as if the boys had gone ahead inside the Meeting Room. Hermione gave her an odd look before trying to step inside where most of the staff already were, but Ginny suddenly grabbed her arm and yanked her back.

Hermione stumbled backwards, and then gave Ginny a scowl. "What was _that_ for, Ginny?" Hermione asked her irritably. She didn't favor being pulled back so violently. Not unless she was about to walk into a room with a ticking bomb in it – but no other situation than that.

"I asked Ron and Dean to go ahead inside, but you and I, Hermione," she said, looking her straight in the eye, "we're going to have a bit of a chat."

Oh, goody.

Hermione loved chats.

Hermione sighed, looking at Ginny intently. "Look, Ginny," said Hermione. "We're going to be late. Everyone else is in there, and they're waiting. They've got plans afterwards, and I don't want to keep them behind. Can't we discuss this later?"

Ginny gave her a look that Hermione couldn't necessarily read.

"Is this about Malfoy?" she then asked softly, sympathetically. There was no hint of interrogation in her voice. "Is this about him? Why you're always so busy, why you got into a spat with Ron for no apparent reason? Why you look so – frizzy?" she said, eyeing at her hair. "And have you even had any sleep? Look at the hideous bags under your eyes! How do you expect to snag a boyfriend by the end of this year if you're going around looking like some zombie—"

"Seriously, Ginny?" Hermione said, feeling weary. "I don't _care_ if I look like some walking zombie. I don't _care_ if I don't get a boyfriend. I don't _care_ if I look malnourished—"

Ginny slapped her.

Hermione gasped.

"_Ginny_!" Hermione gaped, her hand rising to her face. It wasn't a very hard slap, but it was a slap nonetheless. You don't go slapping your friends like that unless you wanted to be slapped back, and if that was the case, well, all Ginny had to do was tell her. She started to yell. "What the hell was that for? Did you just – did you just _slap_ me?"

"I _had_ to, Hermione," Ginny huffed very febrificly, her eyes narrowed. "You were starting to talk in satanic tongues."

"_Ginny_!"

"Hermione, you're ruining yourself!" her friend retaliated. "_Look_ at you! I feel like _feeding_ you every time I see you! Parvati and Lavender have been telling me to ask you what diet you're on because you've lost probably already fifteen pounds! And those girls are – they're recovering _anorexics_!" she whispered harshly. "You're being a _bad_ influence, you _look_ horrible, and everyone's worried about you because you look like that-that _girl_, from the Exorcist! What is _wrong_ with you?"

"What's _wrong_ with me?" Hermione scoffed incredulously. "You mean _besides_ the fact that I care about more things that lipstick and shopping and boyfriends and gossip? I _study_, Ginny, you know that! The Harmonium is on _my_ plate! _My_ plate! I'm sorry I can't look good enough for you, but I've got things to do. And now this discussion is over. We're going inside."

"I don't know who made you Queen of the World commanding people like that, but they obviously weren't very smart," Ginny quipped sourly, folding her arms across her chest.

Hermione tensed, feeling warning siren begin to sound off inside her. She wondered whether Ginny could hear it. Probably not, since she hadn't started to back away from the premises yet. Hermione told herself that Ginny was only doing this because she cared about her. Ginny was her friend.

And you are _never_ supposed to hit one of your friends.

(A rule that Ginny had already offended, so there was this question pulsing wildly inside Hermione's head: what was keeping her from doing so as well? An eye for an eye, right?)

(Stupid Ginny.)

"What exactly is the point of all this, Ginny?" Hermione finally asked, her shoulders stiff. "_Is_ there a point? Because for all we know a massacre could be breaking out right inside the room right at this moment."

Ginny sighed loudly, looking down. She looked a little guilty. "You're in love with Malfoy," she said very quietly. "Maybe… maybe you're not meant to be in love. I mean, it's ruining you. It's _destroying_ you. Usually being in love is fun. But you… you look miserable."

Then, funnily, Hermione began to smile – for a reason totally unfathomable to her. She didn't even know if she thought what Ginny had said was funny. But it was just that she was so spot on that she couldn't help but to laugh a little.

"Come on, Ginny," Hermione smiled, motioning her towards her. "Let's go. We have a meeting to start."

Ginny nodded wordlessly, and both girls turned and headed into the Meeting Room. The door closed with a firm thud.

Hermione made her way to the stand, her satchel slung across her shoulders. The room was quite noisy and as Hermione made it to the stand and looked up, she was relieved that a fight hadn't broken out yet. Her tired brown eyes searched the room, spotting the Weasleys easily, and going over the attendance roster in her mind, checking off all of the prefects and the staff. She smiled faintly afterwards, pleased that everyone had come.

She pulled out her special quill that needn't an inkbottle – a travel-convenient quill that Harry had gotten her a set of for her birthday – and the paper, straightening herself up again. She set them on the stand, anxiously looking over the paper.

She could very well feel Malfoy's gaze on her, and she was indeed watching him from the corner of her eye. She was then plunged into one of those nerve-racking, weird decision-making things where everything was stitched with pulsating beats and trickles of heat and anxiety. It wasn't easy facing somebody after snogging them in the hall and then sending them to the infirmary with no clear understanding of anything of what had happened – only that it was a mistake. So forgive poor Hermione Granger for panicking when her palms began to break out in sweat. She'd never been in this sort of situation before – her logic and boring antics of life had precluded any chance of any of this sort of thing happening to her.

So what had happened? Since when had her life – in the romantic sense – taken a one-eighty degree turn? When had she started to go around making out with boys in the hallway after a devastating blow in the Great Hall? Since when had she started _making out_ at _all_? When had she become some _wild child_ with _no limits or restrictions_?

Convinced, Hermione let out another sigh, feeling nervous and uneasy. She flipped to the very front page, fingering the edges, swallowing hard.

"Malfoy?" she said, turning in his direction. There was the lively chatter amongst her peers in the room, and she was sure that no one could hear their conversation (if they _were_ to have an actual conversation), and she prayed that the tense feeling between them would not affect their exchange and turn it into a shouting match. Her eyes fought to go anywhere but him, like his shoes, or the wall behind him, but her gaze kept steady, locked with his. She tried her very best and prayed that he couldn't see right through her.

He was wearing an expressionless expression, as always (ah, those Malfoy facial limitations). His deep silver eyes gleamed; his perfect white-blond hair swept across his brow and almost hid his eyes in its shadow. Hermione was afraid that if he came close enough she may not be able to fight the urge to brush his hair off of his eyes – then remember that she shouldn't be thinking that way at all, and instead went back and changed the thought with: she may not be able to fight the urge to punch him in the face. So what if she had no reason to punch him? She was certain that once he opened his mouth and started talking he'd instantly give her one.

"_Really_ nice to be notified about the recent staff changes," he drawled, but it had a sort of biting edge to it, like he was holding some kind of grudge on her. She couldn't blame him, of course. She _had_ hospitalized him. "Don't know why they hold anything against you, Granger. You consider everybody. You tell everybody everything that you're supposed to tell them. Good _Saint_ Granger."

His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

See? _See_? _How_ did she know that once he opened that vile trap of his she would be fighting off the urge to sock him a good one in the mouth?

"I was planning to tell you about Ron," Hermione tensely told him, not looking up from the paper. He was standing very closely to her now.

"When? Because it seems I had to take it upon _myself_ to find out."

He was a little angry now.

Suddenly, she looked up, looking him straight in the eye. Her ribs tightened, crowding around her heart.

"Why is it such a big deal? He knows Quidditch. He's on the Quidditch team. I read his sample. He's a good writer."

"I thought we were supposed to me making these decisions _together_. _You're_ biased. You don't even _know_ anything about Quidditch."

"You _weren't_ around," Hermione reasoned, aggravated. It seemed like people were just throwing all of this shit at her today.

"_That's_ because I was in the hospital wing," Draco snarkily replied, glaring at her. "Know _why_, Granger? Why I had to endure the torturous, borderline sadistic methods of being spoon-fed medicine by Madam Pomfrey? Why I had a blinding headache the moment I woke up and felt like _trashing_ everything?"

"Oh, you don't have to be so melodramatic," she snapped. "I already said I was sorry."

"Yes, because _notes_ always convey the meaningfulness of things."

"If you care to recall," Hermione hissed, "_you_ kissed _me_."

"_You_ didn't stop me," he spat.

"Forgive me if I was emotionally distraught and was not able to fight off the advances of a _man_!" She then folded up the paper and stuffed it in her pocket. Obviously they were both not having very good days today. She looked at him with a vindictive expression, her eyes shining with anger. "Forget it. You're just going to have to read the issue when everybody else does. There's no way I'm going to deal with _you_ today."

"Yes, because you're good at that, aren't you?" Draco spat. "Running away?"

"Oh, go to hell," she passionately told him, getting off the podium and heading towards the door. "Lead the meeting yourself, you selfish cad."

And with a flurry of black robes she was gone.

Draco looked up to see that the entire room looking at him, slowly quieting down, as soon he only heard a few rustles and some people moving around. Dozens of pairs of eyes watched him intently in wonder and suspicion, and even in anger, and Draco scowled back at all of them.

"What the hell did you say to her?" shouted a livid voice, and Draco's eyes immediately landed on Weasley, whom had his face sketched in a threatening expression, standing amongst the crowd. There were a few murmurs at this as he watched his sister try to coax him back into composure, but she was looking at Draco with a suspicious look in her eye as well. "I swear, Malfoy, if I find out that all you've been doing is harassing her, I am going to make sure—"

"Sadly, Weasley, I'm afraid it's your mate that has the problems, not me." Then Draco began to get off the podium himself. "Lead the meeting yourselves."

And as the room was consumed by exclamations and shouts of confusion, Draco had already shut the door behind him and walked the other way to the Head rooms.

oooo

The next day, Hermione felt the butterflies in her stomach last all morning, its hyperactivity boosting all the way to the highest mode for the dreaded but highly anticipated special occasion.

She hadn't had much sleep the night before for all she could do was twist and turn, thinking and just thinking, contemplating worriedly over the newspaper launch the next day. She had even gotten up to reread and look over the layout once again when she hadn't been reassured enough by her thoughts. She went through everything — the articles, the font, the facts, the lettering of the headlines and name. She was so frightened and so worried that she was going to fail. Though she told herself that she most certainly _wouldn't_ for she had done so much and worked so hard for it, she still had those uneasy knots in her stomach that stretched and pulled. That almost forced her into bothersome hysterics, caused purely by: anxiety, stress, pressure, strain, and weariness.

She would've come to the factual conclusion that it was the lack of sleep that was driving her to the edge and making the room seem too hot or too small or as if the walls were caving in on her — that is, if she managed to calm herself down and just take the time to pacify the muddled web inside her mind.

Hermione went to bed at three a.m. that day, only to wake up at six thirty a.m., only catching about three and a half hours of sleep that hadn't really helped her at all. She had felt that tiredness constrict around her so tightly that she hadn't wanted to leave the bed, but determination and logic got her back on her feet. For her exhaustion and weariness, for she knew she would not survive the day feeling utterly gruesome and horrible, she merely took the potion Madam Pomfrey had given her that time before, and she instantly felt energized and refreshed.

So, with her newly found energy, she had gotten herself all ready for the special occasion. People often woke up at seven or seven thirty for breakfast, because breakfast ended at eight twenty, so she knew that gave her and the rest of the staff enough time to go out into the corridor nearest the Great Hall, bringing the bundles of newspaper along.

Hermione was now standing beside Ginny, a stack of newspapers beside her. The rest of the staff was there as well (in more accurate terms: the ones that could drag their lazy bums out of bed in time), to help pass out the papers to their peers that were soon to spill down the corridors to the Great Hall any minute now. Most of them were chattering excitedly and confessed openly that they felt a bit nervous about it. But there were also a few of them who looked at Hermione oddly, and she only looked away, knowing very well why that was – she had heard from Ginny that _she'd_ ended up leading the meeting herself after Draco had stormed out just minutes after she did. What was surprising was that Ginny hadn't asked what had happened; it was in those moments when Hermione knew that Ginny really cared about her. Despite the shallowness she tried to project on herself to seem untouchable (that encounter with Riddle back in second year had really done something to her), she was a genuine person. Fanatical, sure. But genuine.

But as people started walking down the corridor and up to them, eager to get a newspaper and then into the Great Hall, it was only then that she realized something. Ron wasn't here, of course, for he was always a heavy sleeper and dreaded getting up earlier than necessary, and Blaise Zabbini (also not surprising) and some of the prefects weren't either. But what she was utterly puzzled was at was about Draco. He wasn't here yet.

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows, looking at her surroundings; excited chatter going on all around her as people enthusiastically took a newspaper from the staff.

His absence wasn't too bizarre; after their little fight yesterday she would have thought it perfectly reasonable for him not to show up (not like she wanted him to show up – he had blamed the whole kissing thing on _her_! _Hah_! The devil is a liar!). But he had been in knots about the whole not-telling-him-about-Ron, so she had a little sliver inside her that maybe he took all of this as seriously as she did. Then she realized something that made her want to smack herself.

She'd forgotten to owl him.

Now she was never going to hear the end of it. Ever.

She worriedly observed her surroundings, watching the students who were animatedly grabbing newspapers from the staff members, which was indeed good news. She put a smile on her face as she handed one to a first year Ravenclaw and tried to reassure herself that Draco wouldn't be _entirely_ angry. . . . After all, she was certain he wouldn't fancy getting up early to hand out the very first issue of the Harmonium. This was a social event. Draco Malfoy _lived_ to ruin these things.

Hermione brightened her mood as she pushed thoughts of him away, greeting everyone who came along and took a newspaper. It seemed to be a hit so far, and that lightened the load on her heart.

oooo

In the Great Hall everyone was seen with a copy of the Harmonium, reading, laughing, and chatting with the rest of her peers as she walked through the aisles to the Staff table where Dumbledore sat at with the rest of her professors. Some people congratulated her, and she felt herself beam with pride and happiness.

She didn't think the pay-off could feel so good.

She walked up to Dumbledore, who was smiling at her proudly.

"Good morning, Headmaster," she greeted him.

"Ah, Miss Granger. I was wondering when you'd stop by. You've a copy for me and the rest of the professors, I assume?"

Hermione smiled widely. "As expected," she said, lifting a copy from the bundle she carried. She gave it to him, and he took it appreciatively. "I do."

Dumbledore beamed at her, just giving one quick glance at the paper he held and then back at her. His blue eyes sparkled behind his half-moon spectacles. "I knew a hearty Congratulations would be in order, Miss Granger," he smiled, "the moment I introduced the idea to both you and Mister Malfoy. You've gone above and beyond. I applaud you greatly."

Hermione smiled, blushing from his compliment. "Thank you, Headmaster," she said. "It was a brilliant idea from the start."

Dumbledore let out a hearty chuckle, and Hermione bid him farewell as she moved on to hand out the professors their copies. Her Head of House, Minerva McGonagall, also praised her on her good job, and Hermione knew that all those nights with but a few hours of sleep had finally paid off. But as she reached the end of the table, she had a feeling she had forgotten someone. She furrowed her brunette brows as she looked back, skimming the beginning of the table to the end. They were all chatting to each other and some were lightly laughing, reading the Harmonium. She knew there was someone…

And that's when she remembered. Snape.

She looked over the table once more and saw that his chair was empty. She wondered why she hadn't noticed that before.

Hermione shifted the stack of papers on her arm as she slowly headed towards Dumbledore again. She halted in front of him, curious and concerned.

Dumbledore looked up from the paper, and beamed at her again. "_Excellent_ first issue," he said to her. "_Very_ excellent issue indeed. You've rounded up a fantastic lot of writers."

"Thank you," she said, a bit absentmindedly. "That means an awful lot. But I've been meaning to ask a question."

Dumbledore gave her a questioning look and put down his paper slowly. "Oh? And what might that question be?" he asked.

"Nothing major, of course," she assured him. "But I've been noticing that Professor Snape's been absent for quite some time, sometimes rather randomly, and I was wondering if everything was all right," she said nervously, "with the school, and such."

Dumbledore chuckled lightly, but Hermione could've sworn she had seen something flicker in his eyes – something that could've possibly hinted Snape's situation or whereabouts.

"There's no need to fret. Severus is just away on some personal business, and yes, it will require him to be missing at some rather unsystematic times during the year. But no worries — instead of having to cancel his class and assigning his students to study in the library as we are doing as of the moment, we are hiring a… an understudy, so that when he is gone there will be someone just as informed and well-versed to teach you what you need to know. And, Miss Granger, the school is in _no_ danger," he smiled. "At all. I can assure you of that."

Hermione sighed, smiling, feeling sort of foolish for being so worried. "Oh. Thank you, Professor Dumbledore. I'm sorry to have been so meddlesome."

Dumbledore shook his head. "Not a problem, Miss Granger. One is allowed to worry."

But as Hermione opened her mouth to bid him a good day, again, a familiar drawl interrupted her.

"Granger."

_Shit_.

Hermione froze, instantly recognizing the voice. She felt those bothersome shivers creep up her skin again, but she tried to dismiss them as hard as she could as she turned to face him. The sight of him almost made her weak in the knees, strangely, and she had to look down and pretend to be partly preoccupied in the papers she was holding. However, even with the clean intentions of her actions, the familiar yet troubling sensations that the sight of him or even the mere presence of him beside her insistently gave her, they would not leave her be.

'_Like that's much of a surprise, anyway. It had never worked before.'_

'_Oh, shut up.'_

"Morning, Malfoy," she said distractedly. "Anything I could help you with?"

"Actually, on a level of things, _yes_, Granger."

"And what exactly might they be, Malfoy?" she asked, still not looking up at him.

"Oh, _cut_ the innocent act, Granger, it's _rubbish,_ and it doesn't fool me one bit. You know _exactly _what I'm talking about."

Hermione looked up and saw the dark glint in his eyes caused entirely by annoyance.

"_Not_ notifying the Head Boy on the activities he _should_ be notified on, _stupid _move, Granger," he spat. He looked very angry.

"It was a _mistake_, Malfoy," she retaliated, forgetting that they were standing right in front of Dumbledore, who was watching them with curiosity. "I only owled them about it last night, after they'd left, and I just forgot."

"Amusing lie," he snorted, crossing his arms. "But _ironically_, no one here finds it funny, so why don't you just stick to the truth?"

"It _is_ the truth!" she said hotly. "I just _forgot_ to owl you, all right? In the midst of all the hectic preparation for today, it's bloody _easy _to forget things!"

"I'm _Head Boy_, Granger! I'm supposed to be the _first one_ you owl!"

"Says _who?"_ she snapped.

"Says the _rules!"_

"That's a _lie_! It doesn't say _anything_ about owling the Head Boy first in the rules – and I don't understand why you're so angry, anyway! _Surely_ you didn't want to wake up thirty minutes earlier to pass out _newspapers!"_

"You can't _possibly_ know what I want, Granger!"

"I have a _clue!"_ she spat back.

Dumbledore silently sighed, watching the… quite interesting scene before him. Though there were obvious sparks that he could feel between them, he knew it wasn't _just_ anger or _just_ annoyance. He had never seen them like this before. He could even feel a smile coming on when the suggestion of love came up in his mind, and he knew he didn't need to try to dismiss the idea. The only time he had seen two people fight so heatedly about a fairly ridiculous and mere topic was Lily and James Potter. He could've easily guessed what was to happen between the two – Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger.

If anyone else would've seen the two between them right this moment, they would have shaken their head and state what was clearly obvious to them – that the two evidently _hated_ each other with a passion. Of course, that was to the inexperienced and untrained eye. Being old as he was wise (and really, really smart), he had seen a lot of these things over the years, and he could've predicted when the two would start a relationship that was planted on, not hate, but the complete opposite. Love.

Oh, the anarchy.

"How amusing," he chuckled to himself quietly. The raucous of the Great Hall easily drowned the two out because of the excitement of the Harmonium, but he could still hear them go on furiously. Why, he had never seen Draco Malfoy so passionate about arguing before.

Dumbledore, deciding that it would be better to end the argument for letting it go on would do no good or progress at all, started to tap the side of his fork against his goblet. The sound rang throughout the room, and soon everyone had quieted down, even the Quarrelling Pair standing right in front of him, who were looking at him in bewilderment.

Dumbledore stood up, everyone's eyes on him.

"The very first issue of the Hogwarts Harmonium has finally come, and might I say, it expresses nothing short of brilliance and creativity. All of this, of course, is the product of sweat, tireless thinking, and hard work. And the people to thank for the wonderful paper in front of us, which will be issued every week, so be sure to grab a copy every Monday," winked Dumbledore, and there was light laughter around the room, "the two people who hold the main responsibility for the excellent paper in front of us, is our _very_ own Head Girl and Head Boy, Miss Hermione Granger and Mister Draco Malfoy."

Hermione felt her cheeks suddenly heat up, forgetting all about her heated argument with Draco.

"So, please, join me as I applaud these two for their hard work and dedication!"

And, all at once, applause and cheers rang through the Great Hall.

Hermione couldn't help but smile – quite beatifically, at that – her cheeks flushing a bright shade of red, looking around at the booming crowd.

Draco simply looked on, but as he glimpsed beside him to the Head Girl, he saw her blissfully sparkling brown eyes and rosy cheeks, not to mention her bright and genuine smile.

That was when he remembered he hadn't seen her smile in that way in… certainly a _long _time.

Somehow dismissing the fact that they had just been in a spat about a minute ago, just from glance of her – happy and proud that all their work had paid off – he managed to crack (despite his arguments just to appear usually impassive), not a smirk, but a smile. A un-Malfoy-ish smile, and a smile that even Gilderoy Lockhart himself would be brought to shame of.

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**Post-A/N:** Well, who would have thunk it? Draco Malfoy ACTUALLY SMILING? Better call the po-po. Or, better yet, just **review**. 


	19. Love Birds

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling is the queen of all things Harry Potter.

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Those who have been following on with each update and chapter, and even those who have just recently just discovered this fic — thank you very, very much. :)Eprops for you all.

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**Love Birds**

Three weeks passed.

Now, the Hogwarts Harmonium Staff had their own mailbox outside the Meeting Room for anyone who wanted to write them a letter. This had been in consideration of _nice_ letters, or rather: fan mail, if you wanted to get cocky. Since they were not exactly to know who to send it to, they were to just drop it into the mailbox. That had been Dean's idea. But the mailbox had been filling up fairly quick lately and usually it was Hermione who had the most mail for she was, after all, the editor. But having the most mail was not always a good thing. In truth, it was very seldom a good thing.

She'd had a total of one hexed letter so far. It was from this morning, one that made painful blisters appear all over her hands so that every time she were to clutch something it was utter murder. She'd gone to the hospital wing early this morning in hopes that she could get something to soothe it, but Madam Pomfrey only bandaged up both her hands after making her rub some sort of special healing lotion on it.

So then it was clear why Hermione was completely miserable today. Writing notes was horrible because writing and even gripping the quill alone made her hands and fingers burn with a vengeance, and thus she fell behind. All her notes were incomplete, and she knew she had to find someone who took as good a note as she did…

Professor Dumbledore hadn't found a substitute for Snape yet, so instead of Potions class Hermione and the rest of her peers had to go into the library as a form of study time. Hermione loved Study Time. Study Time was bloody brilliant.

Harry and Ron were with her, predictably overjoyed that Snape had taken his leave again, and Hermione was relieved also because she terribly needed to catch up on her notes. She waited as Ron and Harry lounged in the aisle of an isolated shelf, one that held the books that anyone seldom needed anymore. She remembered that this place had been covered with cobwebs and dust the day they found it, neglected and appearing to be abandoned for ages. But they had cleaned it up with a simple spell, and this had been their private spot in the library ever since.

Harry and Ron had gotten out their quills and parchments, claiming that they were to work on their essay for the Top Ten Most Useful Herbs and Plants for Herbology, but they hadn't one sentence down in the twenty minutes they had been here.

Hermione sighed, looking sadly down at her bandaged hands.

Madam Pomfrey said that it would take two days at most to heal, but if she were lucky, it'd heal overnight and be just as well as it had been before in the morning. But to Hermione, one day with blistered and sore hands was already too much. She had to proofread some of the pieces that had been sent in from the lower years tonight and she also had to get her DADA assignment done: an essay about the theories and facts about vampires, and the most well known of the lot of them in the wizarding world.

It made her awfully sad and depressed to think that she had to delay all of that because of one bloody hexed letter. It made her angry to think that people would be so dense as to believe what they wrote about her and Harry being romantically involved or being a couple on a gossip page.

She couldn't believe the stupidity of people sometimes.

She _hated_ stupid people.

They always had to ruin everything, like make wars, or send hexed letters to people who didn't deserve them.

"Harry? Ron?" she asked them, interrupting their conversation about the latest addition to one of the Quidditch teams. Hermione couldn't care less about Quidditch, so it was often she cut in when they were talking about it, and Ron noticed it a lot, thus he always whined about it. But Hermione was immune to his whining. She was still waiting for him to realize that.

Both boys turned to look at her, Ron rolling his eyes and leaning back in his chair. "What is it, Hermione?" asked Harry.

"Can I see your notes from Transfiguration and Herbology?" she asked, remembering that Herbology hadn't been in any of the greenhouses today. They had occupied an empty Ancient Runes classroom for their lesson.

Harry nodded. "Sure," he said, unclasping his book bag and trying to fetch it out.

Hermione looked at Ron, who was just standing there, looking out the window.

"Ron?" she asked.

Ron looked up at her and then sighed, running a hand through his ginger hair. He sent her a crooked smile. "Didn't take any," he replied, and Hermione gave him a disapproving look.

"_Honestly_, Ron," she said, in a tone she knew would stab him right in the gut. She liked to impersonate Mrs. Weasley sometimes when she was feeling like a sadist. Especially around Ron. "You've got to take your studies seriously, or else you'll end up like Filch… except _without_ Mrs. Norris, and much, _much_ worse."

Harry let out a small chuckle, and Ron glared at her. "I'll take it seriously the day I feel like it," he said. "And, obviously, that isn't _today_, so tough luck, Hermione."

Hermione sighed, giving up, not having the energy to participate in a spat with him today.

"_Ron,"_ Harry said warningly as he slipped out his notes and sent him a look. Ron turned away, crossing his arms and muttering under his breath. Harry sighed before turning to Hermione and giving her his notes.

As Hermione took it, the mere three pages of notes he gave her, already she knew that it wasn't enough. She knew Harry wasn't into the specifics and detail when he took notes, and she _needed_ those specifics and details to _live_. It was like air. People needed air, unless you were a fish, then your air was actually water, which was actually pretty neat to think about. But she didn't want to hurt his feelings and reject it right away, so she took it and smiled, telling him thanks, and looked over it.

During that time, Harry and Ron started to speak to each other about Quidditch again, while Hermione invisibly sulked.

She was right. Harry's notes had _nothing_ on detail.

This wasn't air.

This was, like, bootleg air.

After ten minutes on listening to them argue about the Quidditch teams' stats and players, stuff that meant absolutely nothing to her that it was actually just a monotone, incoherent droning in her ears, she made up her mind to look for someone who took _good_ notes—Hermione-wise. So Hermione handed Harry back his notes and straightened herself up.

"Where are you going?" Ron asked her. "We're _in_ the library — where _else_ could you be going?"

Ah. Typical Ron.

Really, Ron had a few quips that were his own, and most were quite stupid, but he was actually able to get away with them. She called them Ronisms. It was silly of her to be naming things like that (but hello? She talked to _owls_, remember? She thought she even had a pet rock when she was little if she thought back hard enough) but she was Hermione. Hermione didn't need to explain things to anyone.

Hermione scowled at him. "I'm just going to go off and ask around for some notes," she informed them. "I'll be back. I won't be gone long."

The pair nodded. "Good luck, Hermione," Harry called out to her, though Hermione merely frowned, feeling as if her luck had just run out.

She looked around the library, waving to some of the people she knew, but didn't really bother to ask for their notes. She knew from one look what sort of note-taker they were: there was the once-in-a-while note-taker, the non-specifics note-taker, the doodling note-taker, and the note-taker who only wrote the sort of notes to pass to their friends sitting behind them. None of them took her sort of notes — specific, understandable, and down-to-the-letter accurate. She wrote down _everything_ the professor said that was important and vital, which often resulted in about four, five pages of notes on a good day. And she knew that today had definitely been a good day for notes. A mere three pages weren't going to cut it for her. She needed her _air_.

Hermione ventured into the more silent and desolate shelves of the library — the oldest sides with the oldest books; just like her, Harry and Ron's aisle. She, unluckily, caught a couple snogging passionately, for which she let them off with a small but stern warning, instead of deducting points. It was only their first offense, and Hermione knew, for she had a knack of remembering faces very well.

But as she went farther and farther towards the end, she passed a shelf, but having caught something in the corner of her eye, she stopped and slowly turned and walked back.

There, alone and silent, was Draco Malfoy, a textbook in front of him and reading over his parchment. Hermione hid herself behind the shelf, watching and observing him, noticing how focused he seemed to be in his work (she suspected a porn magazine in there because no boy could look so hard at a book without naked girls). But as she continued to watch him, he turned the page of the book, and her assumptions of dirty boy minds were proven false. She found that it even warmed her heart, for never in her life had she found a boy like that… or like _her_, as a matter of fact. Which was scary. Studious Draco Malfoy? Who knew?

There had to be porn in there.

She tried to shake the thoughts and butterflies in her stomach away and urged herself to just walk away, but she found she couldn't. She knew deep in her mind that he was what she had been looking for — one of the very rare, specific, understandable, and down-to-the-letter, accurate note-takers. She even found herself to be shocked at why she hadn't thought of him before, because he _was _the Head Boy, and the Head Boy _always_ had to be a good note-taker.

Reluctant, but sucking it up (because Hermione Granger was no cowardly custard), she approached him.

Draco, hearing footsteps, looked up, and found himself startled at who was walking towards him. She froze when their eyes met, as if getting ready to back away very, very quickly, but slowly started to walk again.

"Granger," he said, mild surprise in his voice. He looked down at her hands, noticing that they were bandaged up to her wrists. "What? Pince throw yourself out of the library again and you felt the need to slit your wrists? Didn't know you were so morbid," he drawled lowly, looking back down at his book, as if he was bored with her. "You know who you should talk to? Anna Abbott, that Hufflepuff girl. I heard she's got a little Razor club going on. Maybe you could join."

"It's Hannah," said Hermione quickly, looking at him with a bothered look on her face. "And you're wrong."

Draco gave her a look, glancing from her face to her hands. He hadn't heard of an accident just yet. "Then I'll try my other guesses. So is that just a new fashion trend?_"_ he asked as she finally stopped right in front of his table, nodding to her hands. "Or did someone just think your editorial skills were truly a disgrace to the newspaper world?"

"As a matter of fact –" she started.

Then he began to smugly smirk, closing his book, and Hermione stared at him, surprised, wondering what he had to close his book for. "So it's the latter? No need to explain, Granger, I know how it is. People just hate bad editing. It's not your fault."

She scowled at him, wondering just why on earth he had to act like this towards her _all the time_. Didn't he ever get tired of being so mean? "_What_ is your _problem_?" she asked him, and she really wanted to know. "What is it with the perpetual snide remarks about me, Malfoy? Can't you ever – oh, I don't know – accept people for what they are and _shut up_?"

"That would be called being nice," he pointed out. "And I'm not nice. Daft Granger. I thought you knew that."

Her eyes narrowed threateningly. "I bet _you_ were the one who sent me that hexed letter."

He snorted. "Don't flatter yourself, Muggle. You aren't worth my hexed letters."

She ignored him. "I just wanted to ask if I could borrow your notes," she said harshly, wondering why it was again that she'd felt so apprehensive about going to him. Oh, yes – because she literally felt like beating the pulp out of him! "From Transfiguration and Herbology. I wasn't able to keep up."

Draco merely looked at her, silent for a moment. He was trying to somehow figure out if she was just as uncomfortable as she made him – which wasn't nasty or anything, simply fair game. His insulting comebacks (sort of undeserved, he had to admit) had been so easy to spit out because she'd been avoiding him lately. Really. It was no joke. She'd been slipping out of her classes faster than he could say Vamoose and even during the Hogwarts Harmonium staff meetings she'd always managed to get involved with somebody else and dismiss them without even once interacting with him, excluding the occasional "Get out of my way, Malfoy" or "Shut up before I hex you, Malfoy." He'd never admit it aloud, but it just _bugged_ him. It was a foolish thing to say, but it just didn't _feel_ right.

He merely sighed loudly, tearing his eyes away from her and reaching inside his book bag, searching for his notes.

Hermione, catching his sigh, took it as a bad thing. She had known better than to bother him. She felt obligated to object, seeing that he was hesitant to lend her his notes – though she knew it would only be a stupid reason as to why. It was probably because he thought she was going to get her germs on them, or something equally dim-witted. Really, for a boy who had been so eager to snog her this was a drastic mood change.

"Well," she said irritably, "if you're going to act so mean about it, you don't _have_ to lend them to me. It's very clear to me that you don't want to, and I was just asking because—"

He found them, a lengthy five pages, and he pulled them out. He raised an eyebrow at her, wondering just _what_ she was going on about now. He held them out to her.

"—I mean, I didn't come here to be such a nuisance to you and your gigantic sack of pride, and I'd _completely_ understand if—"

"Just _take_ the bloody notes, Granger," he snapped impatiently. She immediately shut her mouth, him having interrupted her daily "useless rambling," which she did when she was tense or uncomfortable. He jerked it forward, mentally asking just what in the hell she was doing just staring at him like that. She reminded him of a meerkat sometimes, just because she had those big eyes.

"Granger," he barked. "Either you _take_ the damn notes, or you walk away and leave me alone."

Hermione was sent back from her trance from his hasty words. She looked at him, puzzled, before she shook her head. "Sorry," she said, not comprehending just what she had been so lost in. Probably his large-as-the-Atlantic ego. Could drown a few ferrets in there if he wanted. But why kill his kin?

Hermione reached for the notes and carefully took them from his hands. But as she did, their fingers brushed against each other's, and she pulled back immediately, feeling that shocking electricity burst through her as soon as she had touched him.

Whoa.

Hermione swallowed hard, still feeling her nerves buzzing excitedly. "I apologize," she said hoarsely. She cleared her throat, shifting her stance awkwardly. She then said something that immediately made her want to stick her foot straight down her throat. "I… I thought I felt something."

Immediately she wanted to cover it up with – "Yeah, like the touch of death!" or something really insulting, but she couldn't recover, couldn't even begin to, because she was a serious halfwit with serious cerebral problems. She hated these moments when she was caught off guard by her mouth that just said things sometimes, without even letting her know beforehand.

"That's the touch of a true Pure-blood, Granger, savor it because you'll never feel it again," and he snatched his hand away.

She made a disgusted sound through her nose, wanting to smack him with his papers. Or give him a million ugly paper cuts on his face. "I'll return these to you when I'm finished," she said, glaring at him. And Hermione, fed up with his bizarre and annoying tactics to make her blow her fuse, just narrowed her eyes at him before turning on her heel and walked out.

"The touch of a true Pure-blood?" Draco echoed, when he was alone. He made a face of scrutiny. "Oh, that's a good one, I should write that down."

And so he grabbed one of his parchments and did.

oooo

Hermione looked distressfully at the stack of papers on her desk.

She had been in the middle of proofreading a fourth year's essay about how and why Quidditch influenced a majority of the male population in the wizarding world (she was really getting sick with all this talk about Quidditch — this was the fifth essay this week!), when she had remembered the notes Draco had lent to her. And, though she had wanted to procrastinate that for later since she still had quite a long way to go, there was a nagging feeling that later would be too late. Of course, she had reasoned with herself why that wouldn't be too bad, and actually preferred since he had acted quite annoyingly with her earlier in the day, and that he deserved to worry a bit over the tardiness of his notes. In fact, she had wished that he did need the notes for an assignment so that he would result in having an all-nighter due to the absence of his notes for the last 7 hours.

But.

He was Draco Malfoy. If he had needed his notes for any particular occasion, he would have come banging down on her door by now. He wasn't the sort to wait around.

But _still_. He needed to _suffer_.

Unfortunately, Hermione's good heart and polite logic took over, and with a heavy sigh and a heavy pounding that racked her mind of utter pain and ache, she got up, wrote a quick thank-you (worst part of the whole motion), and handed it over to her owl to return back to prat-faced Draco Malfoy.

Hermione waited on her bed for her owl to return, contemplating about him and other things though that was clearly not allowed during her study/work time. She closed her eyes, distinctly waiting for the sound of fluttering wings as an indication that her owl was indeed returning…

She was tired. And not just, "Oh, I'm bloody tired," tired, but tired as in she could've slept and not have moved from the bed for the next ten years. All in a moment, the minute she had laid down and closed her eyes, her body was overcome with the weighing exhaustion that she had tried to ignore and fight off, and she felt like lead. A stiff, heavy, big, unmoving piece of lead. She _wanted_ to rest. She _wanted_ to sleep. She _needed_ to sleep. Her hands still throbbed with pain; grateful for the break she had given them from the painful writing and clutching or gripping of anything.

To Hermione, she felt as if she had a fair amount of sleep each day. It was not as if she avoided sleep altogether (though she wished to, but had proved it was impossible for someone like her on one too many occasions), merely just slept very little hours… more like naps, actually. Still, it was a sufficient amount of sleep considering the fact that she was getting loads of work done. Why, if she'd slept the eight hours recommended each night, she'd nowhere even be near getting done!

She was just halfway through by this point. But she didn't even know what she was to do when she was done. Do _more_ work. That was the routine. There was never rest for her anymore. The Hogwarts Harmonium was a weekly-issued thing, and because of that they had to be on a hustle and bustle agenda. She was the appointed editor, and though she hadn't even wanted the position in the first place, she was determined to be the _best_ editor there could ever be in the history of Hogwarts.

And so what if that meant sleeping less than anyone else in the whole school? It wasn't such a big deal.

Her eyes opened as she sat up quickly. She looked to her open window, the curtains blowing from the entrance of the evening breezes. She looked at the night sky that greeted her sight, her windows wide open and her crimson curtains rustling faintly.

She looked at her clock, puzzled.

Seven minutes had passed.

She looked from the window to her owl's silver cage. It was still empty.

Hermione became worried as she got up and headed to the window. She poked her head out, looking both ways, but was not greeted by the sight of the familiar of her oncoming owl or the flutter of wings sounding her return. She looked around her room, but Guinevere was not present. She began to cluck her tongue, because it was ridiculous, and Guinevere often responded to it – yes, like a _normal_ person.

Worried, Hermione tried to think where her owl could be.

'_I'd only sent her to Malfoy's room to return his notes, and she should have been back in less than five minutes.'_

Hermione's eyes widened in realization. "_Malfoy!"_ she exclaimed. "She's been at _Malfoy's_ for a whole seven minutes!" she hysterically said. "He's _done_ something to her! I _know_ he has!"

Like eaten her, or something, maybe for some revolting Pure-blood ritual.

Hermione was panting wildly in ragged breaths as she looked around, trying to calm down. '_Calm down, calm down,'_ she mentally told herself. '_Maybe… maybe he's just writing a note back to you.'_

'_I told her not to wait for a response!_' she screamed frantically. _'I told her specifically!_ Specifically!'

She was hysterical. She was also a little barmy, but hey, that was pretty much her day-to-day thing.

'_That's it. I'm going over there.'_

She pulled on a hooded jumper, not exactly caring if she had chosen to wear her undersized pink satin shorts tonight, and stomped over to her door, throwing it open and rapidly walking out. She crossed the common room, hastily muttering the spell for the lights in an irritated call as she halted in front of Draco's door. She rapped her knuckles against the hardwood loudly and quickly though her hands still burned intensely from the hexed letter, hoping that he'd take that as some sort of an indication to open immediately.

Fortunately, he did.

The door opened, revealing a fresh-looking Draco Malfoy, his hair still damp and wet from the shower he had just returned from about twenty minutes ago. Despite herself, Hermione felt her heart rocket violently, his alluring scent filling her nose and making those butterflies return, as well as that sensation that made her feel as if she was some sort of trance. She felt a bit lightheaded as she looked at him, blinking and shaking her head as her vision began to blur.

But she straightened herself out, looking him straight in the eye and a strict look on her face.

'_Focus, Hermione, focus_,' she told herself.

'_Oh, yum,_' her mind squealed as she continued to look at him, taking in the fit, black shirt that made him look rather nice. Or, er, sexy? '_My, my, my. Draco's a slice of one of the most scrumptious, delicious, delectable cakes I have ever seen in my whole, entire—"_

"Malfoy," she said sternly, dismissing her evil, _evil_ thoughts immediately. Cakes? _What_? Was that one of the worst metaphors for people or what? "I _demand_ to know what happened to my owl. I sent her to your room _ten_ minutes ago to return your notes, and I find it _impossible_ to believe that it would've taken her that long to drop off notes! I want to know what you've _done_ to her, Malfoy!"

All right, so she fibbed a little. It was actually eight minutes ago, but ten sounded better (and it was called rounding), and a lot more urgent, and if he actually caught that tiny fact then he was just as much as a freak as she was.

Draco gave her a steady look. "Look, Granger, _first_ of all, you've no right at all to come _banging_ down my bloody door and accusing me of—"

"You _owl-napper_!" she shouted. "You _kidnapped_ my owl and I _demand_ to have her back, do you understand? I haven't done _anything_ uncivilized to you to make you do such a mean and horrible thing, so I bloody demand I have her back _right_ this _second_, do you understand me? I returned your notes! What else could you possibly want? What? _Ransom_ money?"

"Will you _let_ me bloody _finish_, you madwoman?" he retaliated, also annoyed. "I didn't _kidnap_ your bloody owl, for Merlin's sake," he said. "And, second, it was _eight_ minutes ago, not ten. Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do."

Freak.

Hermione crossed her arms against her chest and scowled at him. "Then _what_ exactly _did_ you do to her, Malfoy?" she asked him in a low, dangerous voice.

Draco's eyes glimmered with impatience.

"If you'd hurt her the _slightest_ bit, I _swear_ to you, I'm going to—"

"I didn't hurt her!" he snapped. "I didn't even _touch_ your sodding owl! For once, Granger, would you stop _accusing_ me of any ridiculous things and just _listen_?"

Hermione glowered at him, her eyes narrowing into slits with suspicion and distaste. "Fine," she spat. "I'm _listening_, Malfoy."

Draco sighed, looking at her, not liking the way his annoyance and anger with her faded much more quickly than before. "I didn't _kidnap_ your owl," he said firmly.

Hermione simply watched him as he saw worry and concern flicker in her chocolate orbs. "Then what did you do?" she asked him, more quietly than before. She was more concerned than angry now. "Where is she? Why has –" Then she gasped, her eyes widening in horror. "Did you _eat_ her?"

He was startled. "_W-what?" _He couldn'tunderstand this girl's problem. "_Why_ would I _possibly_ want to _eat_ your owl? How is that – how is that even _possible_?" He emphasized a lot in this sentence, saying it slowly, inching his face closer to hers and making gestures. He really thought she was crazy. "Are you – are you _mad_, Granger?"

She sighed, and she was smiling a little, which was strange. But then she sobered up again. "Then where is she?"

Draco let out another sigh, a heavy one this time, as he stepped back and opened the door wider. Hermione's eyes flashed with curiosity as she observed him, wondering just what on earth he was doing.

"You'd better come in and see for yourself, Granger," he told her, and Hermione heard weariness in his voice. She felt bad for this, seeing how late it was and how she had just… angrily interrupted… whatever he was doing.

And, well, that whole eating-her-owl thing, that was only meant to be funny. She'd just wanted to see his reaction. She wasn't that stupid. She knew he wouldn't eat her owl – he was far too high maintenance for that.

But as she just realized his words, she looked at him in confusion and bafflement. Shock was also big in the moment. "W_-_what_?"_ she stammered, looking at him as if she'd just heard him ask her to shower him with blast-ended skrewts.

Draco just looked at her intently, no sort of revulsion evident in his expression at all, and considering that very blatant fact, she was positive she hadn't heard him correctly.

"I _said_, get in," he told her firmly, his serious expression now setting her clear, but surprise and befuddlement was still quite high in her system. Too high to comprehend that he actually was _serious_. '_Has the world gone mad?_' she asked in her mind, still swimming in her shock and confusion. '_Draco Malfoy's asking me to get into his room! What is _happening_ to the world? Has Parvati and Lavender somehow managed to control the minds of everyone else surrounding me?'_

Hermione was still staring at him blankly, and Draco was getting quite impatient. He still had other things to get to. "_Damn it_, Granger," he snapped intolerantly, "just _get_ in my bloody room before I yank you in, would you? I'm _not_ planning a surprise attack on you with a roomful of _Death Eaters_, all right? Does that _assure_ you enough that your death will not occur tonight, in my room? Or would you like a bloody _contract_?" Draco glared at her. "Do you want to know what happened to your owl or _what_?"

Hermione, shaking herself free from her surprise, was finally able to understand what was happening. Or what had happened. She didn't know. She was still in the after-shadow of the astonishment. "All right," she swallowed hard. She could almost see the inside of his room… torture devices… knives…

She hoped that she would only be one minute there. Or less. The lesser, the better. She literally thought she was on the verge of a fatal heart attack.

She nodded, and Draco held the door open for her, stepping back, as she came inside and entered his room. Hermione found herself surrounded by the dimness of his room, something that somehow strangely pleased her eyes as she heard the door close with a faint "click" behind her.

She could still feel her heart racing, trying her hardest to seem as if she was in no trouble at all, as well as keeping her breathing in its normal and usual pace. She could feel him behind her as she observed his room, overwhelmed by the wealthy furniture and décor that surrounded her, though she had known better to expect these things from him, a Malfoy. Even his surname started with an M, just like Money.

She couldn't help but to be wildly captivated and fascinated as her eyes roamed and wandered around the room. She hoped that while she did this that it'd distract her from the feel of his eyes on her.

It was easy to be preoccupied with his room. The prick certainly had a classy room. Though it was tasteful, it held a sort of masculinity to it, which she was shocked at. Maybe it was the fact that even his room smelled like him, and he did not smell like a girl… at all.

The walls were colored green and silver for the Slytherin House; just as her room's walls were colored crimson and gold, for Gyrffindor. His was a deep green, a darker and much more gloomy shade of a green that she found was actually more suitable for him and his cynical, sinister personality instead of the quirky, plain green the Slytherin House sported. There were faint trails of silver that were entrapped in a batch of swirls and vines that grew from the dark corners, and some rising upwards, or downwards – considering that some of them grew downwards from the ceiling – that was not too much, but enough to make the room seem sophisticated, and again, festooned with wealth.

He had an expensive, dark wooden desk with stacks of papers, quills, and inkbottles set atop the surface. She noticed that he was very well organized, having seen Ron's trunk before (though she did not know how or why she could compare Ron's horribly messy trunk to Draco's desk), and found herself quite charmed by it… until she managed to shake it away and mentally said that of course it was charming – it probably cost more than her house.

But as her eyes roamed, she came to notice the small table beside his window, where he kept his owl. Her eyes widened at what she saw, her mouth agape.

She heard the soft, faint hooting and she gasped.

"_Guinevere!"_ she gasped, even more surprised and shocked than before. "Oh… _my_." Then, apparently, words were not enough.

There, by Draco's owl cage, was her owl, alongside the arrogant prick of an owl she recognized to be Draco's.

They were affectionately nipping each other with their short beaks, hooting lovingly, snuggled right up beside each other.

Hermione couldn't believe her eyes as she felt Draco walk up alongside her, witnessing what she was, as well. Hermione couldn't speak. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what was appropriate to say. She was utterly, and horribly speechless.

"What-what did you _do_?" she stammered. "What have you _done_ to my owl?"

"What have _I_ done to your owl?" repeated Draco. "Are you _mad_? I think my powers are far too meager to tamper with your stupid owl's emotions, Granger."

"My owl isn't stupid," she snapped. "It's your owl – he's – it's –"

"He's," he corrected.

"_He's_ stupid!"

"For what?"

"For-for _seducing_ my owl!"

Draco let out a loud laugh, as if he was entertained with her.

Hermione took in a deep steadying breath as she looked away, and then at him. "Do you believe this?" she asked him. "Do you believe what we're seeing?"

He looked at her exasperatedly. "It's right in front of us, Granger," he told her. "It's real. As ridiculous as it is, we _have_ to believe it." And it was ridiculous. Really, their owls falling in love? What were the chances? Could owls even fall in love? Was that even legal?

"How did this happen?" she asked him, panicked.

"Why are you asking me? I'm no owl expert." But, seeing the look on her face, he sighed and went on. "Your owl tapped on my window, I unlocked the latch and let her in. Your owl saw my owl, and they decided they fancied each other. Easy as that." He looked away. "Your owl wants to get into my owl's pants," he muttered.

"Shut up!" said Hermione shrilly. "Um…" she said, trying to think of something. "We've got to _do_ something!"

"And, what, exactly," he said, one brow hitching up behind his bangs, "could we do?"

"I don't know!" she said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "Get owl repellent and spray it all over your owl!"

"That's impossible, Granger," snorted Draco. "Where would we _find_ owl repellent? And – don't hate my owl just because he's just as seductive as I am."

"Unlikely, Malfoy. Did you try to make Guinevere leave?"

"I bloody tried to push her out the window, Granger. All I got was a hell of a lot beak bites, and feathers in my hair."

Hermione turned to him, her mouth open. "You tried to push her out of the _window_? Why would you _do_ that?"

Draco rolled his eyes.

"That's _horrible_!"

"I was _trying_ to make her leave!" he retaliated, telling himself he should have known she was going to make it ten times harder than it already was.

"By pushing her out the window? Of _course_ she'd leave, because she'd be _dead_, then!"

"She has _wings_! She's a bloody _owl_!"

"So? You can't just _push_ an owl out the window!"

Draco sighed, giving her a look.

"She could have _died_!"

"Granger, she _didn't_ leave, she _bit_ me, and she's still here and _alive_, all right? Now would you stop your nutty finger pointing?"

She looked back at the owls, trying to make up her mind on what to do. Finally, she uncrossed her arms and approached them.

"Guinevere? _Guinevere_, love?" she cooed and whispered affectionately. She reached out her bandaged hand and petted her softly, and Guinevere turned to look at her and hooted back. "Love, it's late," she said to her owl. "Let's go back to the room. You can visit… him, _tomorrow_," Hermione said, not knowing Draco's owl's name. But, Guinevere, clearly understanding her owner's words, attempted to bite Hermione, who jumped back in surprise.

She heard Draco snigger behind her, and Hermione glowered. She turned to him, her eyes dark. "I expect _you_ have a much better idea?" she huffed.

Draco merely smiled a small smile, his silver eyes twinkling with laughter from her failed attempt. He shook his head. "Tried everything, Granger."

"Have you tried putting your owl back in his cage?"

Draco nodded. "_Everything_, Granger."

Hermione sighed. She closed her eyes for a brief moment.

She had so much work to do.

"What should we do?" she asked quietly after she opened her eyes. She looked at him intently, her brown eyes expressing nothing but worry and exhaustion, and Draco, despite himself and his efforts to forget her over the past days, became worried. A little.

"I don't think there's anything we _can_ do," he informed her.

She sighed heavily again, and raised her hand as she rested her forehead on it, trying to think.

Draco silently observed her. He knew something was wrong. No one had to be a rocket scientist to see that. Her skin was much paler now, and sallow-looking as it had been ever since the newspaper came out. Her once bright eyes were now absent of the eager sparkle for learning, or even for a new day. Every time he saw her, which was rare now since she was either in the library or locked up inside her room, she was working. On the newspaper, on her studies. He had never seen her laughing or even smiling these past few weeks.

Not that he'd want to, o'course. It was just odd. Gryffindors were happy, smiley people. That's why they were so unbearable.

He was just awfully disturbed because of her behavior, more disturbed than he should be allowed. She was overworking herself and he knew everyone else at the staff knew it too. But they never said a word. He knew they had tried to give her a break, but she had always refused. And now that the Harmonium was busier than ever, he knew that she was barely getting any sleep at night. And it frightened him. It was _creepy_.

Not that he cared. So what if she was overworking herself? She was always overworking herself! Maybe she'd get hospitalized and finally learn her lesson. But he'd just never seen her like this. He'd seen her in some situations somewhat similar, but never this bad. A part of him even wished he hadn't seen her this way at all. It was like a bad movie.

She wasn't eating as much as before and that was evident. Her robes hung much loosely and her skin seemed to be stretched across her face in a tighter fashion. In the Great Hall, he would glimpse at her, and she'd always be working or studying while eating her breakfast, if she even ate one. Mostly, it was a mere orange or apple. He didn't know if anyone told her that was indeed an unhealthy breakfast, but he thought they should, especially if they were her friends. What was she doing? Trying to starve herself? Didn't she know that a wholesome meal was vital in a growing adolescent's health?

But just as he was opening his mouth to ask her if she was all right (not so politely but in the dodgy way a Malfoy would), and if she was getting enough sleep, she had dropped her hand down and raised her head up. She had a slightly solemn look on her face as she looked at him.

She looked behind her, one last glimpse at her smitten, blissfully happy and head-over-heels-in-love owl, feeling an anchor weighing heavily from her heart as she sighed. She almost wanted to kick Guinevere.

She looked back at Draco and decided this matter could wait. If she needed an owl, she could just head over to the Owlery. "I'm going to go," she told him, feeling too exhausted to deal with the matter for tonight. She still had a few more papers to get to.

Draco looked at her, his deep silver eyes blurred over with worry. "What about your owl?" he asked her. Yes, _what about her owl_? This was not some owl shelter!

"Would you mind if she stayed with you for a bit?" she asked him sincerely and hopefully, her voice so faint and feeble, almost beseeching and vulnerable like a little girl's. It struck a chord in Draco's heart that he had never known even existed. "She doesn't want to leave, but I think she will, when… it ends."

"But, don't you need her?" he asked, knowing that normally she would insist on having a way to have her owl back with her, even if it meant dragging it. Besides, what would he do with an extra owl? He already couldn't concentrate because of their distracting cooing noises. Maybe, just maybe… he could cook them.

No. That was horrible.

Maybe if it was Christmas, and then maybe force Potter to eat it. The idea was entertaining… but no. Owls were fussy.

"I'll just head on over to the Owlery if I need to owl something," she informed him.

Draco nodded, still trying to figure out what he was going to do with a pair of smitten owls. With his luck, they'd be popping out little babies by tomorrow. The thought made his stomach perform a cartwheel. _'Say no! Say no! Tell her to take it back with her! This is _not_ some owl shelter!'_

"Oh," he said. Pathetic as it was, he couldn't do it. Maybe he could send her a hexed letter instead. "Well, suit yourself, Granger."

"Thanks," she told him, giving him a slight smile in gratitude, and Draco felt his entire ribcage jump, realizing that this was the closest he'd seen her to a smile in weeks, and that it was directed at _him_. At_ him_.

It was like offering the devil a cup of tea. Or the key to heaven. What on earth was she thinking, smiling at him like that? Did she literally want to get tackled out of his room?

Had the world officially gone mad?

He merely nodded again, wordless.

Draco opened the door for her, watching her leave with a slight painful pang in his heart that he persistently tried to ignore. But as she stepped out, he called out to her.

"Granger," he called out, just as she was crossing in the common room. She froze and turned her head, looking at him. "If you need any help," he said to her, slightly hesitating because of the tugging knots in his stomach and the fact that he knew he shouldn't be doing this. It was not the Malfoy way.

No, this was charity work. Malfoys did not do charity unless it was for the evil charity, or something just as worse.

"Just tell me."

And Hermione smiled.

There his heart went again.

"I will," she said. "Thanks."

A short moment later, Draco closed the door. He realized that this time she hadn't told him to have a "productive evening." She was certainly an odd one. Who else would tell someone that? No one came to mind.

He looked at the two owls perched on his desk, sighing heavily. "What on earth am I going to do with the pair of you?" he asked himself. "Better yet, what on earth am I going to do with _myself_?" he groaned, digging his face in his hands, marveling at his utter stupidity.

**Please review!**


	20. The Problematical Sport

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.

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Thank you for entering a new chapter of Basketcase! I… love you? Is that appropriate? Eh.

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**The Problematical Sport**

Her hands fortunately healed the morning after, leaving Hermione free to work and stress over the matters in which she had to keep from piling up. However, no matter how hard she worked or how fast she tried to get things done, it still did. She made sure that Guinevere was still fed, however, as she had stopped by Draco's room in the morning to hand him a bag of her treats and food. Draco had then informed her, with a hint of amusement and bother, that his owl refused to get back in his cage, reason because Guinevere could not fit in there with him. Seriously? Sometimes she talked to Guinevere because she thought she was an actual person. So she kind of figured.

Hermione, staring up at her ceiling for she had matters still troubling her, and she had taken too many doses of her Insomniac potion ("_The potion that keeps you awake for as long as you need!_" the slogan read, which apparently was no lie) than necessary, found herself wide-awake even though she was _so tired_.

She had done her share of work today, and so she was just awaiting the next round of work from the people who hadn't turned in or owled them to her yet. By this time, she knew the scent of procrastinated business very well, so she was quite sure that that lot of people had obviously been holding it off. The deadline for this week's paper was tomorrow at the exact tick of the clock at 5 o' clock p.m. so it could be constructed published that same night, and ready for handing out to the public the next day.

One of those people whom she called "The Lot of You Lazy Procrastinators" during a hectic business rush not so long ago, not so surprisingly, was a redheaded, temperamental boy by the name of Ronald Weasley. Ron was an excellent writer, but he was always busy with Quidditch, or doing his essay or assignment the last minute, or running off to do… something that was _not_ the piece of assignment Hermione desperately needed for the paper.

Hermione thought that it would've been easier for Ron to get that piece of work done since it was on Quidditch, and obviously if Ron had the chance to marry Quidditch, she knew he would most certainly jump at the opportunity to be eternally bound with it (considering the quote "Yes, Hermione, if I could I'd have sex with Quidditch and have dozens of illegitimate children running around in the world"), but with Ron, it was a complicated thing. He was either letting her down, or trying _not_ to.

Hermione sighed, closing her eyes, snuggling underneath her covers.

They'd been avoiding each other. Her and Malfoy. Not to a great extent: nothing like going all the way _around_ the room to get to the front to avoid passing by each other or the sort, but just the little things. They tried to avoid being in a room together in where no one else was there to keep them on their toes or keep them in check. Yes, a lonesome room with just the pair of them inside was her greatest fear. She knew that anything, yes, _anything_ could happen… especially after what had happened in the corridor, which, by the way, had also been empty. (Seriously, go check.)

Draco Malfoy had baffled her before, but now she was just – whoosh, out the window. He'd been a _complete_ arsehole before, and well, she would've honestly chosen that over this any day, what with agreeing to keep her owl there and taking care of it; not to mention actually acting out his sympathetic side towards _her_, Hermione Granger, the filthy-blooded bookworm who was to be absolutely despised by all pure-bloods and Slytherins, most _especially_ the Superior of the vicious lot, Draco Malfoy. But yet things had changed. Sure, they often and most constantly became sore at each other, but it wasn't as if they were preparing to bite off each other's heads every morning.

It really was the strangest thing… Draco Malfoy was _actually_ being civilized, and _un_-git-like…

Hermione groaned.

What the hell?

ooooo

It was surprise at its greatest extent, it was unbelievable, and it was undoubtedly something she was sure to regret later on, but she had done it. She, Hermione Granger, the girl who was indeed one of the cleverest, most stubborn and headstrong witches out there who would totally kick the most bums out there if she had to, had done it.

She had knocked on his door and asked for his help.

No doubt, he had told her to tell him when she needed help, and he sure as hell had meant it, but that didn't mean he had actually been expecting her to come over and knock on his door with that embarrassed look on her cute (agh!) little face, much less have it done in the next twenty-four hours that followed.

He didn't refuse her, of course, because he didn't have the heart to. Just one look at her hopeful, exhausted, sleep-deprived, sickly-looking and awfully sallow face, the word "No" had been swept clean from his vocabulary. What was he to do when she was looking at him in the way that made everything melt inside him and his heart race faster and harder that it began to hurt? What was he to do when she was standing in front of him, asking for the help he had offered? What was he to do when he knew that _thinking_ of doing the motion alone – asking him, Draco the Really Handsome Bastard Malfoy, for help – let alone actually _doing_ it took some guts and the self-sacrificing of a bit of her pride?

Yes, Hermione Granger was a brave little thing.

And so.

This was how Draco Malfoy found himself reading and editing over the pieces sent in from the "Lot of You Lazy Procrastinators" of the Harmonium's staff. He wasn't very happy with the fact that about half of the staff put their pieces off until the last minute, since now he was taking a chunk out of his own time as a consequence from their sodding late work.

Yes, that was right. Draco Malfoy had been in the middle of a Potions essay when she had come a' knocking. He hadn't even finished it yet for he had come to her almost immediately, dropping everything he had been doing. It made him wince when he thought about it, because it had been a heroic, _Potter_ thing to do. He should have told her to wait for about an hour before he came and helped her. Or half an hour. But that had been before he had known how much work she had been asking him to do.

However, being the cold, cynical and difficult person that he was, he had reassured her that he was to give her a hard time afterwards as soon as he had seen the pile.

"You owe me, Granger," he had growled to her as he had begun to get rather irritated with one columnist's handwriting that looked (basically) like chicken scratch. It was like a sort of code, something you couldn't read unless you had some deciphering gadget, or if you were the person who wrote it. Draco had always been an impatient person, and, what with the energetic butterflies his body gave out, the situation put him in a rather thorny position. He had to prevent himself from looking up and watching her (or, in his foul mood, cursing at her), knowing that she was just working across the table from him, nothing but a few inches of wood separating him from her. He couldn't concentrate either, and it occurred to him that maybe that was why he was having such a tough time trying to read this article.

He looked up and found her rapidly skimming a textbook and then furiously writing on her parchment, hearing the scratch of the point on the smooth surface of the paper. Instantly and immediately regretting his decision, telling himself that he was _so_ going to get it later on, his mind was boggled and lost in the sight of her.

He kept telling himself that it was no extraordinary sight, just her in her natural habitat: doing her coursework. But it was the atmosphere, the orange light that flickered across her face, the way she didn't look as horrible as he always told himself she did; accompanying the statement with a few visuals that were guaranteed to make him hate her again until – well, it didn't work.

The fire was burning in the hearth behind her, and he could see some of her russet curls almost glowing from the light it gave out, as if she had some sort of bright, fiery and godly aura around her… or, a halo, which was strange. Because, clearly, she _could_ be something of an angel if she wasn't so fiery or cheeky. But then again, she could also be something of a devil. A really mean one that bit and yelled a lot.

Sure, she was awfully pale and her wavy hair was now frizzy at the ends for she had obviously stopped tending to it because of her hectic, demanding schedule, but somehow… there was just something that struck him as odd about her. And not odd as in revolting odd or frightening odd, and not even strange odd. It was… something extraordinary.

He wondered what Pansy Parkinson looked like without make-up.

Damn.

He couldn't focus.

He looked back down at the parchment laid before him, his mind suddenly becoming frazzled by trying to figure out the horrible writing.

'_Just ask her. You know for a bloody fact she sure as hell knows,_' his mind told him.

'_Bugger off_,' he snapped defensively.

'_You prick, just ask her. She's seen this over the past month, four issues, Draco. _Four_ issues. She _knows_.'_

'_I _said_, bugger _off.' Draco scowled down at the piece, bothered and annoyed.

"Granger," he suddenly said, and Hermione looked up, surprised by the sudden voice in the silence.

She looked up at him, startled. "Yes?" she asked him.

Draco looked at her before he swore under his breath, knowing that it had escaped his mouth intentionally without his consent. _Damn_ the devious, wicked works of his brain. "This…" he looked down at the parchment again. For heaven's sake, he couldn't even read the name! "… person," he said in an irritated tone as he glowered at the paper. "I can't understand the writing. It looks like _Pollock_." Now, Draco didn't really give a cat's nose about Muggle artists or anything, but it was just that it really _looked_ like Pollock.

Hermione was confused, trying to understand what he was telling her. Finally, she sighed and put down her quill, standing and walking over to him.

Draco blinked when he realized just what she was doing.

She sat down beside him, his gray eyes watching her with slight disturbance and awe, for she was doing what he was hoping she _would_ do but praying she would _not_ do. He felt his heart start to thump against his chest, the room suddenly turning up its temperature. Draco gulped down hard as she leaned closer, trying to read the parchment.

'_Bloody hell_,' his mind kept repeating. '_Bloody _hell_.'_

He wanted to push her away. He also wanted to suddenly wrap his arms around her wrists and pull her forwards into him. So, of course, by now he had comprehended – which was quite a miracle, really, since he could not comprehend anything else – that he was in even _more_ serious shit and he was about as confused as hell. Ridiculous how now he was put in a position where he could easily attack her and _force_ her to make out with him.

Tempting. Very tempting.

She cocked her head to the side, and suddenly he found her with a mild smile tugging on her lips. "Oh," she said, relieved, having obviously expected something much worse. "Him."

"Him? _Him_? Yes, see, I didn't know it was a _him_, Granger. My _owl_ could have done a better job writing a piece out," he told her. Hermione rolled her eyes at him, but there was still that _damn_ smile.

Draco's heart was literally having a seizure. He wanted to just reach inside his chest, rip out his heart, and throw it against the wall for its acts of disobedience. Maybe even crush it under his heel. But he figured that that would probably hurt very much, and he didn't need that right at the moment. But, then again, he could have a new heart built. A robotic heart. One that didn't allow him to feel. He'd be imperishable then, and maybe he'd even point a finger at her face and laugh, and laugh, and laugh… Because he could. Because he could not feel sorry or guilty because his heart was mechanic and unfeeling.

Draco felt that was a very clever idea.

Still, though. That _smile_.

"I can just take this one," she said. "He's… well, I can understand it, which, is a miracle, really. He's a good writer, and usually, it isn't _this _bad… but I suppose he hadn't… exactly taken his time."

Draco snorted. "Really. I hadn't noticed."

Hermione only sighed, before he watched her as she reached for the parchment. "Thanks, anyway," she said, catching him off guard again. "For trying. Effort is important." And, as if she had just told him something funny, or ironic, she startled to chuckle softly as she took the parchment from in front of him.

Then, suddenly as she lifted the parchment, the motion caused his quill to tumble down the desk and unto the floor. They both reached down to grab it, when, incidentally (just his jolly luck!), their hands brushed against each other's again, which sent an electrifying jolt through their veins, rapidly rippling through their skin and nerves.

Draco and Hermione froze. He drew his hand back, frightened and shocked by the feeling, and Hermione hesitantly reached for his quill and grabbed it.

They slowly sat back up in their seats as Hermione nervously watched him and he was looking at her with an odd look in his eyes that she surprisingly remembered to be familiar. Hermione felt her heart violently trying to leap out of her chest, as if wanting to somehow make its way to him (thus _killing_ her), and her mouth became very dry. Sahara Hot Nights dry. And the room seemed to be getting so hot, so small, so fast…

Draco stared at her. His fingers felt funny.

Hermione cleared her throat, looking away, trying to gather up her frazzled thoughts. But then she looked back at him.

Stupid move.

"Here," she only managed to say, in a soft whisper. She held out his quill. Really, if he touched her… she would maul him. She seriously would.

He reached for it, but he froze, and instead, (and he was convinced that his body had been inhabited and possessed by some other wandering soul) he found himself suddenly kissing her.

That's right. He was kissing her.

They were going at it, too, with hands everywhere, and their faces all up in each other's, but once they were finally getting the hang of things, they heard a loud noise and they both pulled back faster than you could say, well, Pull back. Hermione almost fell out of her chair. She wished she did. She could have hit her head and lapsed into a happy coma. Remember that?

Yeah you do.

Draco, his heart pounding furiously from what they had been so passionately engaged in, looked behind him, where the noise was coming from. He licked his lips nervously, his hands burning.

Hermione looked past him towards the door of the common room, her eyes wide and her heart hammering painfully. For a while she was even sort of confused, because she'd thought the noise had just come from her, like how her heart was being so bloody _loud_.

"_What_ in the _hell_?" Draco said aloud, hearing the insistent banging and shouting. There were two voices—a lady's and a—

Hermione stood up abruptly, so abruptly that Draco jumped. He thought she'd been going to attack him – and no, not his mouth. Her eyes were wide with realization and shock.

"Wait, Granger, where are you going?" he demanded.

"Harry?" she suddenly called out, running to the door.

"Granger, it could be—"

"_Harry?"_

Just as Draco had stood up and run over to her side to somehow try to protect her from who it could be (a hero reflex, maybe? He shuddered to think), she had swung the door open.

And as if she had some psychic superpower, Harry Potter was there. But one look at the state of him sent concern and worry to fill Hermione's expression, forgetting all about the fact that she and Draco had been caught in a very nice snog.

"Harry?" she asked concernedly, well aware that her lips were burning and her face was red. As bad as it was, though, she was hoping Harry was so distraught he wouldn't notice. "What is it?"

"It's Ron," said Harry, panting. His Quidditch robes were soaked from the rain, and there were still droplets of water running down his pale, frightened face. His dark hair stuck to his forehead, his face looking even paler in comparison. He was shivering.

"Ron?" she asked, alarmed. "What about him?"

"He's in the hospital wing," gasped Harry, breathing heavily. "We were at Quidditch practice, and he insisted that we stay after dark, and then there was an accident—"

"Is he going to be all right?" she asked, not needing to hear the gruesome details at the moment, a ruthless bind constricting tightly around her throat.

"I don't know," Harry truthfully told her, his deep green eyes dark with fear and worry. He was still quite shaken up. "He's unconscious."

Hermione gasped sharply, before she started to think and knew what she had to do. She turned to Harry, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Stay right here, Harry," she told him, her voice quivering from the revolving fear and shock. She was still surprised from the news. "I'm just going to go get my jumper and then we can go."

Harry nodded, silent.

But as Hermione turned, she was met with the stern cold face of Draco Malfoy and those lips she had so fervently kissed. She swallowed hard, everything rushing back to her, making her cheeks heat up again. "Malfoy, I'm going to head on over to the infirmary," she told him hoarsely. "Just finish everything you can, and I'll be back. I'm sorry… and, thanks," she said. "For… this." Not for the kiss. But for the work. She made sure he knew that.

She tried to give him a smile, but only managed a weak one, before walking past him and into her room.

It had been less than a minute before she emerged from inside her room, a dark hooded jumper covering up her pajamas.

Draco had noticed Harry giving him an odd but then cold look as Hermione came out, but Draco had also received the same look while she had been gone. Draco had looked at him that time, and understood exactly what Harry was thinking and had been trying to say. No words were necessary at all.

Touch Her, and You Die.

Draco reciprocated that same exact look, except it said:

Touch me, and You'll _Wish_ You'd Have Died.

Draco couldn't help but feel angry. So _what_ if her red-mopped little friend had an accident? He had wanted to practice into the dark hours, after all, for Merlin's sake! Everyone _knows_ that's the most accident-prone and foolish thing one could do! And it was bloody _raining_! He didn't think anyone, even Weasley himself, could be so dense and half-witted! Even Crabbe and Goyle wouldn't have done such a thing!

All in a moment, with a swish of Granger's frizzy head and pink jumper and the firm slam of the door, Draco found himself alone in the common room, and alone with his miserable thoughts. A damned depressing change of mood when a minute ago he had just been madly snogging a girl.

Her soft thanks still hung in the air wafting around him like a windswept bubble as he tried hard to try to extinguish the aridity inside his mouth and throat. His fingers still buzzed with the workings of his overexcited nerves, and he then began to shake his hand, as if trying to get them out.

"Stupid Potter," he grumbled.

Okay.

If he did "go after" her, a list of terrible things could occur. One: he could make an utter fool of himself (this was most likely). Two: she could just laugh at him and then run off and tell her whole house like the rat that she was about what he had done and thus humiliate him beyond words. Three: Potter and Weasel would find out and then hunt him down like dinner. Four: or, even worse, _she_ would become livid and finish him off herself. Five: the whole school could find out and all hell would break loose, and more. And, finally, six: he would find out that he really did like her more than he had thought. Except, well, six was unlikely. _Really_ unlikely. Draco was almost certain that he only fancied her so much because – and this was no lie – Granger could _kiss_. Whatever she had been deprived of to make her so good at snogging, well… it was _working_.

But still. This was pathetic.

oooo

Hermione was out of breath and panting heavily with an ache throbbing in her side when they reached the hospital wing. They had run all the way there: through the dark, long corridors, down the sets of stairs. She spotted a fiery head in one of the colorless beds and she quickly headed in that direction with Harry by her side. Madam Pomfrey emerged from her office with a load of bottles in her arms as she looked at them with no surprise in her eyes.

"Madam Pomfrey," said Hermione, trying to get her breathing back to its normal pace as she reached Ron's bedside. "Is he going to be all right?"

Madam Pomfrey merely looked at her as she set down the multi-colored bottles on the side table.

Somewhere along the way, she realized that she had started to clutch Harry's hand tightly. The coldness of his skin, along with the wetness from the rain, sent shivers throughout her body.

"He'll be just fine, Miss Granger," she said, and Hermione felt the warm wave of relief, her body relaxing from being so tense and stiff. She heard Harry let out a sigh beside her as Hermione finally felt as if she could breathe again. But as Madam Pomfrey straightened up, she had a stern look on her face.

"However, he is still unconscious, for the time being. He has suffered some broken ribs and bones, as well as a concussion. It was a good thing he was brought here immediately, or else he might have been in an even worse condition." She then eyed Harry, who, Hermione observed, looked down in shame. "There is a _reason_, Mr. Potter, that practicing into late hours is something that we strongly advised you _not_ to do. This has happened before, and the student had been near the hand of death. _Too_ near."

Hermione squeezed his hand in reassurance. She felt bad for Harry. She knew it wasn't his fault that Ron was in the infirmary. She knew how Ron was when it came to Quidditch (kind of fanatical and borderline crazy), and she knew that Harry hadn't been lying when Ron had wanted them to stay and practice. But, she also knew that Harry hadn't told Madam Pomfrey this; she knew that somehow, deep inside, he blamed this on himself even though the pointed finger should have been directed towards their unconscious friend. Harry was too good a person to tell Madam Pomfrey he wasn't the one to blame.

Madam Pomfrey pressed her lips into a firm line, her sharp eyes flickering to Hermione. "He'll be needing to stay in here until it is a sure thing that he is back to his healthy state. And even when he is released, he'll need all the rest he can get. _No_ more Quidditch practices," she said in a warning tone that Harry flinched at, "until I approve. His brain has also been affected by the tremendous and hazardous fall, and so I want him to drop _all_ of the extra activities beyond his schoolwork."

At her strict and stern words, realization dawned on Hermione and her heart fell. There was a great, big, painful swelling in her heart.

"But Madam Pomfrey," Hermione suddenly said. "He's a columnist for the Hogwarts Harmonium—"

"You heard me, Miss Granger," Madam Pomfrey said in an overly sharp tone that bit at her gut and heart. Even she flinched at the nurse's tone. "_No_ extra activities beyond schoolwork."

"But we really need him—"

"Miss Granger, he has suffered a _major_ concussion—"

"But—"

"He is _dropping_ it," Madam Pomfrey said firmly. "And that is _final_. He'll be suspended from the paper until further notice, do you understand? I can assure you that you'll find a new Quidditch Expert, Miss Granger, because it seems that Mister Ronald Weasley _isn't_ quite an expert after all, after _this_ load of mess."

Hermione felt Harry's hand tighten on hers, and she knew immediately that that Harry didn't appreciate the nurse's unwelcome comments.

Hermione found it too difficult to swallow, knowing that she'd have to go about the painful process again. But as she looked down at her friend, pale and pasty as a ghost, she understood. She had no reason at all _not_ to understand. He was hurt badly… and the state of his health was more important than some school paper.

However, no matter how much she told herself that, there was still a panicked feeling inside her, along with the sadness of losing Ron from the Harmonium for the time being. Though his work always came in at the last minute, it was never what she considered late. He had been trying his best. And, for the past month, no one had ever complained about his Quidditch page. In fact, everyone quite liked it.

"I'll leave you now," Madam Pomfrey told them. "But you cannot stay for the night. You have classes in the morning." And, without another word, the Medi-Witch did as she said.

Hermione let out a shaky sigh as she slowly let go of Harry's hand. She turned to him, seeing the grim expression on his face. His face was almost as pale as Ron's, shame and guilt parading around his features. His emerald eyes were a lot darker and murkier than she'd seen them these past few days.

"Harry…" Hermione whispered, feeling bad for her friend.

Harry didn't respond and instead looked away.

"This isn't your fault," she said to him quietly. "This isn't. You have to know that. He was the one who wanted to stay—"

"And I let him," Harry said, his voice sharp and strained. "I _let_ him, along with the others."

"Harry, please," she said. "Don't blame this on yourself. You heard Madam Pomfrey: It's happened before."

"He could've _died_, Hermione," he said harshly as he turned to look at her. His expression was sinister and cold, his damp hair sticking to his forehead.

"But he didn't," Hermione insisted. "He's going to be fine."

Harry looked away again.

Hermione frowned at his behavior. "Harry… you've got to stop this. You've got to stop blaming yourself when you're not the one to blame. It isn't your fault."

"Hermione, I can't take risks," he said to her. "I _can't_. I can't _risk_ losing anyone else. Too many people have died because of me."

Hermione could've sworn that Harry was on the verge of tears, but instead his face was fierce and livid. "No," she said, gripping his arm. "Don't say that."

"It's true," he snapped.

"Harry," she said, looking helpless. "No."

Then there was silence. Hermione pulled him into an embrace, because she was good at that and not so good at prying. Harry succumbed into her arms without resistance as he wrapped his arms around her tightly. "Everything's going to be all right, Harry," she whispered to him. "Everyone's going to be just fine. You've got to stop blaming yourself for everything. It's not your fault."

She worried about Harry a lot, even when she knew it was feckless. She couldn't help it. It was as if he'd lost his real mother but he'd gotten her and Mrs. Weasley, surrogate mothers. Two to make up for his real one that he'd lost so early in his life. But even then it wasn't enough. Hermione knew that. Nothing could replace the real thing.

They had already pulled back from their heartfelt embrace when the hospital wing's doors opened, and they turned to see the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. In their arms, they held bundles of food and Ron's things.

Hermione managed a weak smile when Ginny came near. "Are you all right, Ginny?" asked Hermione, noticing that Ginny and the rest of the lot were still wet and cold.

Ginny nodded. "As long as Ronald is going to be," she said, nodding towards his unconscious body, "I am." And Hermione then hugged her, also, as whispers could be heard in the room from the members.

Hermione noticed one of the team members, Reeve Oliver, sitting on the other side of Ron's bedside, lonesome with guilt written all over his face. Hermione felt curiosity spark inside her, but knowing that this wasn't the right time, dismissed it.

When she pulled back, she saw Harry's teammates try to comfort him; reassuring him that he wasn't the one in the wrong, but though Harry nodded, he was only playing along and she knew they weren't really getting through to him.

Beside Hermione, Ginny also happened to notice the false glint in Harry's green eyes.

"How is he?" Ginny asked her in a quiet voice.

Hermione sighed. "He's… I don't know. He still blames himself. I tried to make him understand… but, it's just, I don't know who can get through with him. He's not letting anyone in."

"Maybe… later. I'm sure he'll open up to you," Ginny said to her, sending her a small smile.

"I hope so," Hermione said softly. "I really do."

oooo

They were walking in the corridor towards the Heads rooms when Harry finally spoke up. Hermione had just been waiting for the time he'd be comfortable enough to bring it up himself so they could talk about it. Somehow, in the past, when she'd been the one to first mention things the discussion never turned out so well. Often turned to yelling, actually, or crying. It was pretty sad.

"Do you want to know what happened?" he asked her quietly, hesitating a little.

Hermione looked at him. She nodded. "Yes," she told him softly. "I do."

Harry nodded and sighed, running his hand through his still damp, raven hair. He sighed. "Well, we were still working on a new strategy that he'd come up a few days ago, and we still hadn't quite perfected it because the rain caused some delays. Everyone was freezing and wet, and we couldn't quite play as well as we normally would. But, Ron –"

"Was determined to get it right," she finished off for him, knowing what he had been exactly going to say by Ron's reputation and the fact that she'd been a close friend of his for seven years — one was bound to know these things after spending _that_ much time with him. He was fanatical about Quidditch. It was creepy.

"Right," agreed Harry. "He suggested that we stay until we played it correctly, just once…" Harry faltered, and Hermione knew that this was the part that Harry was wallowing in shame and guilt over. "…So, we did. We all stayed," he finally said, his voice much quieter than before.

"But Reeve was angry with Ron, because he said he still had a Potions essay to finish. Ron demanded that he stay, and forced him to. They got into an argument," he swallowed. "So, while we were practicing, both were still quite sore with each other. When we got into the play, both were playing fiercely, dodging and almost brutally shoving and ramming one another. The rainfall had gotten harder, and everyone wanted to leave, but Ron and Reeve wouldn't listen. And…" Harry paused, and Hermione saw uncertainty in his eyes. Hermione was positive then that Harry hadn't witnessed the whole thing.

"Well, I was consulting Dom on the strategy when we heard Ginny suddenly scream. The next thing we knew, Ron was falling from about thirty stories in the air. No one had their wands, but my broom had been all the way across the field and I tried to get to him as fast as I could… but I wasn't fast enough." Hermione could see the pain etched in Harry's features as he spoke about it, and she wanted to suddenly stop him, but before she could open her mouth, Harry went on. "Below, on the ground, it was still grass," he said solemnly. "Dumbledore had forgotten to change it back to sand because of the rain."

"We didn't know if he would even live," he said, his voice almost breaking. "It was horrible, Hermione."

"Oh, Harry," she said, reaching for his hand. She squeezed it tightly. "I'm so sorry."

Harry didn't say anything, as their footsteps echoed through the empty corridors.

"Just know… Harry, it isn't your fault."

To Hermione's surprise, Harry managed a smile at her. It wasn't a very wide one, and it was weak and small, but she knew it would certainly do at the time. It proved to her she was getting somewhere — either that, or he was thinking of something ridiculously funny to smile at a time like _this_.

"You've repeated that time and time before," he reminded her.

Hermione smiled faintly, a little embarrassed. "Sorry," she said, "but it's the truth. And I _know _you doubt it. I can see it in your eyes." Harry looked down, grinning faintly, and she added, "I can read you like a book, Harry Potter."

Harry laughed, before looking at her, his green eyes twinkling slightly. "I'm certain you can, Hermione."

She nodded, smiling.

"But, Hermione… can I ask you something?" he said, after a bit of a pause of silence. Somehow, the tone and the way he said that made something churn with anxiety inside her stomach. His voice was rigid and tense. Not a good sign for a conversation full of laughing and smiling.

"Sure," she said, as they started to ascend the stairs. The portraits that were still awake bid them a goodnight.

Harry sighed.

"What is it?" she asked him.

"It's… it's about Malfoy."

She let out a nervous laugh, her brain suddenly lapsing into – well, hysteria. She avoided his eyes, though, because she remembered that phrase that said that eyes were windows to the soul, and she definitely knew that he would not want to look into her soul right now. She was sure. She was sure he'd find out that they'd been passionately snogging right before he'd come, and that was bad and wrong. It was a terrible way to degrade things. Ron was in a coma, and Hermione was going around lying to Harry and kissing Malfoy?

"What about him?" she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"When you opened the door for me in the Heads common room—"

"He was helping me with some of the Harmonium's stuff," she quickly said. Her gaze seemed to dart everywhere now. She was what you could call an immensely bad liar. That's why she was so awful at poker. "I still had — and still have, as a matter of fact — loads of work to do, and I knew I wasn't going to get it done in time. And, so…" she paused, before she finally sighed and swallowed the tickling dryness in her throat. "I asked him." And kissed him, but you know, it goes hand in hand.

Hermione felt like banging her head repeatedly against the wall.

"He didn't give you any trouble, did he?"

"No," she said, after hesitating. "He didn't. He's a Head, and he knows that. Heads are _supposed_ to help each other."

Harry snorted. "Hermione, he's _Malfoy_. Please don't act as if he's just like any normal, wizarding, _human_ being."

"I-I'm not," said Hermione, looking nonplussed. "Because he's… he's not." She couldn't remember what he'd said.

Harry then sent her a look, and Hermione caught it from the corner of her eye. "_What?"_ she demanded. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head.

"Harry, just _tell_ me," she huffed. "It isn't 'nothing,' it's _something_, and I know it, so just tell me."

"It's nothing, honestly, Hermione."

"_Harry_…" she said, in a low and dangerous warning tone.

Harry sighed. "Fine. It just seems as if… how can I put this in a way that you won't be tempted to hex me to Pluto? I suppose there's no other way. It just seems as if you've gotten soft."

Hermione gaped at her raven-haired friend. "_Soft_? _I've_ gotten _soft?"_ she said, her voice getting very high. She was utterly offended. This was _profane_, and _obscene_.

_Soft_?

Like-like what soft was he talking about here? Melted ice cream soft or… freshly baked cookies soft? Because there was a difference. One was worse. The melted ice cream. Because melted ice cream was… ugh, gross.

"Yeah," Harry said, looking at her. "Towards Malfoy."

Hermione glowered at him. It felt like he was accusing her, and she didn't like it. "I have _not_ gotten _soft_, Harry James Potter," she huffed. "Have you literally lost your marbles or are you just toying with me on purpose?"

Harry shrugged. "Sorry, Hermione, it was just a thought."

"An incorrect, _ridiculous_ thought," she snapped.

"Right," Harry chuckled nervously. "Right."

There was silence as they neared the Heads corridor. Harry's eyes flickered towards her, as if searching for something. "Hermione, can I ask you something else?" he asked her, his voice sounding very indistinct and unclear.

Hermione looked at him wearily. "All right, but be serious," she told him. "I told you before; I'm exhausted."

Harry nodded. "I won't."

Silence.

More silence.

"Out in the corridor," Harry finally said, interrupting the long pause. "That day, when I… found, you two—"

Hermione cut him off, knowing exactly what he was talking about. She felt fear, panic and nervousness gurgle inside her stomach, making her almost nauseous. She wasn't ready to talk about it – not ready to wing it for Harry. She couldn't even wing it for herself. How was she ever going to explain it if she couldn't even try to say it in her own mind without lapsing into hysterics?

"Harry," she swiftly said, stopping him. "_Don't_."

"Hermione," he sighed. "We're going to have to talk about it sometime," he told her. "You _know_ we are. You can't just keep avoiding it. It _happened_, Hermione. Denying it, not talking about it isn't going to change that fact."

Something about his words – the frank honestly – brutally struck her a little.

She swallowed hard. "I _know_ it happened, Harry," she said. "But it isn't open for discussion at the moment, so I'd appreciate it if you'd just drop it."

"It's been a _month_," he persisted. "If you can't talk about it _now_, when will you be able to?"

Uh, never? She wanted to say it, but she couldn't, because he'd only give her that look that she hated. Stupid Harry.

Hermione stayed silent, looking ahead, the knots twisting, turning and tugging in her stomach. She wanted this walk to immediately end. Right now. Right now.

"Just answer me this, Hermione," he said to her. "You and Malfoy… what's happening? Is there anything going to happen between the pair of you? I've _got_ to know. I've _seen_ you… Sometimes, you look far off, and I wonder if you're thinking of him. Are you?"

In a moment of honesty, and knowing that lying to him about it wouldn't do any good now, she said: "Yes," she swallowed. "I do… think of him, sometimes. But that doesn't mean anything," she desperately explained. "I think about a _lot_ of things… I just get distracted, that's all. Everything's been so hectic, and my mind, sometimes, I can't control where it goes."

Seriously.

She wanted to tell him that it wasn't like she'd _wanted_ to think about him, or think about snogging him, or wanting to snog him, or snog him. It was hell what she had to go through, wanting something that was vile and cruel and that used to wear so much hair gel that his hair would have been easily flammable. And she also wanted to say that it wasn't fair. It wasn't. Wasn't fair that she had to explain herself to Harry when she herself hadn't gotten it all, or that-that he was asking her this question right now when all she wanted to do was… sleep. She couldn't control her mind, because if she could, then they wouldn't be _having_ this conversation. Couldn't he see that?

Harry nodded. "Do you have feelings for him?" he suddenly asked her.

Hermione got defensive. And she really didn't know why – it was deranged and weird, what came out of her mouth then: "Do _you_?" The expression on Harry's face was really funny, though, because he was startled and confused at what she'd said.

"W-_what_?"

She shook her head. "What I did," she said, as evenly as she could, maybe even a little bit forced, "was a mistake. What we did — what you _saw_, out in the corridor… was a _mistake_. It's just as simple as that, Harry." She let her grip loosen and her hand fall from his arm. "Everyone has their moments of reckless abandon of all logical thinking and reasoning. That was _my_ moment. I just wasn't thinking."

Hermione felt something crushing inside. Her mind and conscience screamed at her, a tornado and vortex of strong fact ripping out every limb, every seam of her defiance and contradiction.

'_Liar,'_ her mind screeched. '_You bloody liar._'

Harry's face was serious. "You didn't answer my question, Hermione."

"I… It doesn't matter," she told him quickly, starting to walk again, this time faster. Harry caught up to her easily with his long athletic legs. His long athletic legs beat her only semi-long, _not_ athletic legs, hands down. "It wouldn't change anything."

Hermione couldn't believe she was being even a _little_ bit brutally honest. But… what was she to do? Harry was her best friend. She had to tell him at least a slice of the truth — if not the whole. But when had she started to owe anyone _anything_? If she didn't want to say, then she didn't want to say. Why was that so hard to understand?

"Hermione…" He grabbed her arm and twisted her around. His deep emerald eyes searched hers intently. "I'm asking you this for a reason, and that's because I want an answer — I want the truth."

Well, you can't _handle_ the truth.

"I… I don't know," she finally said, jerking her arm away. Her mouth was so painfully dry she could feel the heat radiating from inside, and she couldn't gulp it down to make it go away. "I don't know, Harry. Maybe. I'm sorry." Hermione's deep brown eyes pleaded at him, looking ashamed and guilty. Her face was much paler than before. "But nothing's happened," she told him softly. "So don't worry. I don't plan to pursue—"

"Him?" Harry said.

"—these feelings," she finished. She let out a steadying sigh. "Are you… angry?" she asked him uncertainly, fear parading slightly on her features. "Are you… going to hex me?" It was an unnatural feeling to fear being hexed by her own best friend. Not that she actually thought he was going to go ahead and do it, because that was bad and wrong, but it was still there, simmering.

He sighed. "I'm in awe. I never saw you as the type, is all. I'm as surprised as I am angry. I suppose that's all that can be said. I just… somehow, after these last few days, it isn't so surprising, you falling for him."

**A/N: Reviews are highly appreciated and good for the soul!**


	21. Confiscation and Intervention

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: Didn't I already do one of these?

**Confiscation and Intervention**

Wait a minute, hold the phone.

Harry Potter said _what_?

"…Isn't… surprising?" she managed to choke out. Then she repeated the same two words again, as if echoing it once hadn't been enough. But it added some dramatic flare, saying things twice after it had already been uttered by someone else one time.

Harry nodded.

As helpful as that was, it did not clear anything up for Hermione. She was still in the dizzying and nauseating pile of bewilderment and astonishment she _had_ been in about five seconds ago. Harry, obviously, was not trying very hard to make her understand.

"What do you mean?" she asked, feeling lightheaded. All of the blood was rushing to her head and it was all his fault. Give her one good reason not to beat him over the head with her shoe. "So… you _knew_, all this time, and you didn't tell me?"

When he didn't answer as quickly as she liked she accosted him.

Because, you know, she was kind of crazy.

Of course, a part of him knew this was coming. He knew Hermione well enough to know that one could not just say things like that and expect things to be left there. She, he knew, was going to get an explanation — and if he didn't cooperate, it would involve a few painful hexes (or arm pinches – she was a _mean_ pincher) sent his way.

He knew that Hermione was indeed a rational, moral and peaceful person who opposed the acts of violence. But that was the sane, sensible and _past _Hermione who'd had at least six hours of sleep each night. The Hermione gripping his arm so tightly that he feared she might actually cut off his circulation, as of the moment, was not exactly one and the same. She was… a bit _loony_ when she wasn't working like a psychopath or being as focused to her work but absent to the surrounding world around her and being extremely and _frighteningly _zombie-like.

"_Explain_, Harry," she told him, trying to make her voice sound as calm as possible. There was this constricting feeling around her heart and lungs, and her muscles were tensed tightly. She could feel all of the pressure press harder on her, pushing and pushing, and she knew that she had to calm herself down before she went completely O.J. on him.

Maybe it was because she hadn't had a good night's sleep in weeks. Or maybe it was because she still had a horrendous amount of work to do that she knew she wouldn't finish in time. Maybe it was the lingering suspense Harry was dragging on far too bloody long. And, maybe it was even because her feelings for Draco were now running haywire and rebelling now more than ever.

Maybe.

Or maybe it was all of the above.

Hermione saw a pained expression flash across Harry's pale face as she tightly gripped his arm. She chose to ignore it, however, knowing that pain would indeed help her in getting her the explanation she wanted.

"_Well?"_ she demanded.

Harry sighed, giving her a clear look that he was undergoing physical agony. "Will you at least let go of my arm first, Hermione? You're hurting me a bit, if you didn't care to notice," he told her.

Hermione glared at him. "No."

Harry let out another heavy sigh and looked at her. "Fine," he told her. "Though I'm not exactly sure how I could explain it to you in a way that you'd really understand."

Hermione nodded as she loosened her grip a bit, which relieved Harry. "Go on," she prompted eagerly.

"It's just that…. Well, Hermione, there was just something _about_ you ever since… ever since the paper." Hermione furrowed her brows. "Like I said before, you had these moments where you looked far-off, and I've caught you looking at him for… _longer_ amounts of time than necessary, considering that he's _Malfoy_. I think I knew you were thinking about him, but I just… I didn't want to believe it," he shrugged. "I didn't think it could be possible. I mean, after all, we've spent almost every waking moment absolutely despising him ever since we've _faced_ the ferret-faced prat. But, of course, when I thought about it, I realized something."

Hermione sent him a questioning look. "What?" she asked him, curious, though now also a bit more peeved at how he had noticed her ridiculous behavior before and had not confronted her about it — nor attempted to stop it. And here she thought friends were _supposed_ to try to talk friends out of these things, like some sort of an intervention to be used for, for example: a drinking problem, or even maybe, oh, and this was her absolute favorite: falling in love with an obnoxious bastard.

Obviously, it seemed Harry had not gotten the memo. And Ron, well, he was just plain dense.

"You like pretentious gits."

Hermione gaped at him. "_What_?"

He sighed. "Come on, Hermione. Viktor. Ron. And now Draco?"

It was a moment, a very long moment – so long a moment, in fact, that it shouldn't even be considered a moment – before she realized that he was joking. And once she did, her arm flung out instinctively, her knuckles colliding with his arm. Harry instantly winced, letting out a yelp.

"That's what you get for being so skinny!" she shouted, knowing that she had hit his bone when she'd done that and not remorseful at all.

"That's going to bruise, you know!"

"I know! That's exactly how I intended it!" she huffed, before she stomped down the hall, leaving him behind.

"Hermione," he heard him call out. "Hermione, I'm sorry, wait a second, will you?" He soon jogged up to her, but she snubbed him.

"It isn't funny, you know," she told him.

"I know. Just – will you listen to me?" he implored, and Hermione stopped, turning around and looking him straight in the eye. "I don't like this. You and Malfoy – it's… weird. Bad-weird. I feel like something bad's going to happen, and that he's only going to end up hurting you."

You and me, bub, you and me.

Hermione let out a deep sigh, her face softening. "I… I just, it's complicated, Harry," she said, almost in a whisper. She felt much weaker now, as if she was somehow tired of standing and looking at the problem from her point of view. "But what do you think I should do?"

Harry looked at her seriously, observing her, before looking ahead again. "You should get some sleep, Hermione," he told her firmly. "_That's_ what you should do."

Hermione shook her head impatiently. "No, you know what I mean, Harry," she said exasperatedly. "About… Malfoy."

Harry noticeably tensed and she saw the look of uneasiness on his face. She knew this wasn't exactly an… easy move, or an easy question at the least. She knew he would be somehow torn between being her friend and telling her the right thing. And most of the time the two was the same, but she was sure they weren't in this case.

"Honestly, Hermione?" he sighed, giving her a worried but stern look. "I want you to stay away from him."

This was the sort of answer she expected from Ron — only, of course, Harry had managed to put it in a less threatening and ordering way. And with less wild sputtering and violence.

She looked up at him, only to see that he was frighteningly serious.

"I don't want you to get hurt," he firmly told her. "And he's only going to hurt you. He's bloody _Draco Malfoy _— he has a reputation. He's a prick and he's a cold, heartless monster. And… well, after all these years of getting tormented by him? Yeah, not so pleasant, Hermione."

Hermione felt a sticky dryness plague her mouth and throat, trying to swallow it down as best as she could. "I know," she only managed to say, before Harry went on.

"I mean, despite the fact that he's _Head Boy_, meaning he's awfully smart and all that bloody rubbish, he's still an arrogant prat with his brand-new, latest, most _expensive_ edition Quidditch broom his Daddy bought him, stuck _straight_ up his arse."

Hermione tried not to snort. She'd known all this before.

Except, though Harry said all this and it was the absolute truth, she felt… well, she felt as if he was indeed missing something. And he _was_, in her opinion. Draco _was_ a monster; he _was_ a cold, heartless monster with his new latest-edition Quidditch broom stuck up his annoying, _evil _arse, but… there was more to him than that. There was more substance — substance that maybe only she herself had only ever witnessed — that she knew for a fact that Draco wouldn't show to the public. Or, _his_ public, for instance.

Because Harry was right: he had a reputation.

But maybe this was all shit. Maybe she was just blinded by whatever it was that made him so appealing to her. Because – for six years she'd _lived_ on the fact that there was no substance in Draco Malfoy, just rotting dead ferrets, and now, in a matter of weeks, she was willing to contradict her past beliefs and own up to some very weird new revelations she was having? That was complicated. But what could she do when she actually felt that she was right and Harry was wrong – right along her ribcage? What could she say? "Uh, Harry, you're wrong – Draco Malfoy is like Mr. Rogers, except without the cardigans and more hair gel." Mr. Rogers? Mr. Rogers would spit on her.

Point was, she was just convinced that it spanned bigger than elementary bullying and tormenting. But that was the hard part. That was a part of her past, too – there wasn't a single day in the past six and a half years that he hadn't made the effort to try and make her feel pathetic and low. He'd been _horrible_ to her – past horrible, he'd been, like, one of those special cases they televised nationally. And he hadn't even _apologized_. And now he was going around _kissing_ her? _What_? Sharing _spit_ with her bully?

Mr. Rogers would beat her with a stick.

"You _know_ him, Hermione," he told her, looking at her. "You _know_ how he is. Stay away from him. It's for the best. I don't want to see you get hurt."

"You and Mr. Rogers," she muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said quickly, shaking her head. "Let's walk, Harry."

So they did. They were silent for a while and they only walked, and it was one of the single most awkward moments she'd ever had with Harry, so she was glad when he finally spoke up, when they had entered the Heads corridor. Even if it had been a somewhat strange glib.

"You're too good for him," he suddenly said.

For some odd reason, this brought back the dark rain cloud that had been bothering her to hover above her, once again. Though she had spent the last month trying to convince herself of the same fact, it didn't seem anymore convincing coming out of his mouth, either.

"You've got so much _potential,_ Hermione. You're clever, and smart, and noble, and kind. You're going to be _so_ much when we graduate. You're going to save _lives_… and _Malfoy_… Malfoy's just going to drag you down."

Though she protested the way she was thinking, she did not exactly like the way Harry was speaking of Draco as if he was some homeless, jobless, juvenile delinquent who'd been jailed up for the last three years or so. Though Draco Malfoy was awfully close to being one – a juvenile delinquent – she knew all too well that he was far too clever to ever get caught and prove himself to actually be one. But she also knew that he was also too clever to do something so stupid to get himself a spot behind bars.

She almost wanted to inform Harry of this, but she bit it down. She knew he would only use it against her later — as would also her conscience. He would only question her loyalties and ask her if her so-called feelings had started to scamper her brains. And if he did, she would be honest and tell him that yes, her brains had been totally been scampered. Twice. Count 'em.

They stopped at the door, where the portrait, though weary with sleepiness, eyed them curiously.

"I know, Harry," she only said. "Thanks." Though she did not even really mean it. In fact, Harry's lecture only made her yearning for almost-juvenile-delinquent Draco Malfoy grow even bigger. Maybe it was the lure of doing something that her friends and almost everyone else would frown at. That, however, made her hate herself more with such a shameful vengeance. She really felt like just going into her room and just – oh, she didn't know, knock herself out, perhaps run straight into the wall, hit her head, lapse into a happy coma.

Happy coma.

"You're too good for him, Hermione," he repeated again. "I hope you know."

Happy coma, Harry!

Hermione sent him a mere smile. "Now I do," she said. "But, Harry, I—"

"Stay away from him," he told her, concern in his voice, as if she'd even taken one step voluntarily towards Draco she would suddenly vanish into thin air and never be heard from again. Really. It was getting quite silly, in her opinion. "Tell me you will."

"I'll stay away from him," she assured him, placing a hand on his shoulder, "gladly." Because she was going to run straight into a wall, hit her head, and lapse into one happy coma.

They said goodnight, and she tried to fend away his worries by trying to make him laugh, but she really wasn't good at trying to make people laugh. Usually people only laughed _at_ her. She was the _object_ of their laughter, not their… whatever. Hermione whispered the password and the portrait door swung open, stepping in. Hermione looked around the common room, surprised to see the table cleared off, neat and tidy — no Draco, no pile of work. The fire was still thriving in the fireplace, but the room seemed to be unoccupied.

"Malfoy?" she called out, suddenly feeling nervous. Somehow she had a feeling that her reassuring Harry she would stay away from Draco was going to prove to be useless. She called out his name again, looking around. She walked over to his door and knocked, but there was no reply. She went over to the loo, but it was empty.

She looked around, puzzled.

He was nowhere to be found.

Finally, running a hand through her frizzy locks, she shrugged it off and figured that Draco had probably run off to do an errand. Hermione walked over to her door and said her password, dismissing the odd look the portrait, Celia, gave her.

Hermione stepped in and absentmindedly closed the door behind her, her mind still quite crowded with the events that had just recently happened.

'_It's going to be a long night,'_ she wearily thought to herself, closing her deathly-tired eyes. _'I've still got to do my essays and the rest of the pieces, and not to mention Draco's nowhere to be found. Who knows what he's done with those papers? I _knew_ it! I shouldn't have trusted him! I bet he made up some evil scheme to make me look like an utter fool in front of the whole, entire staff and somehow—'_

"Evening, Granger," said a familiar drawl that had literally come out of nowhere.

Hermione found herself jumping a few feet into the air from surprise.

Hermione, her heart thundering from fright and the element of surprise, looked behind her, where the voice had come from.

And unsurprisingly, there she found the owner of the notorious – and rather irritating a majority of the time – drawl.

And surprisingly, it was Draco Malfoy whom she found smirking at her, in _her_ bedroom.

In _her_ bedroom.

She felt that was something that needed to be emphasized before she went completely spastic and started to send hexes at him like it was the bloody end of the world.

But before she could draw her wand out to start doing so, Draco had _Accio_'d it out of her jumper pocket, leaving her completely defenseless.

However, there _was_ a vase of fresh flowers beside her that she never really liked, which she threw at him. Unfortunately, he sent a spell that sent it in the opposite direction, whizzing past her and shattering on the wall behind her.

"_Malfoy!"_ she shouted shrilly, a trill ringing inside her ears. "_Get out of my room!_ Get _out!_ _What_ in the _bleeding_ hell _are_ _you_ _doing _here?"

Draco only smirked at her (it angered her that he could practically smirk at _anything_), tucking her wand into the back pocket of his trousers. "Well," he said to her, amusement in his voice. "I decided to rummage through your things, thinking I'd find some sort of journal or diary you write in so I could publish it in the paper to humiliate you with. _Unfortunately_, I've only to find that you _don't_, in fact, keep anything of the sort. The saddest thing, really." He looked very amused with himself. "But then I sort of already figured. Only fat girls keep diaries."

Hermione fiercely bit down on her tongue to keep from screaming. Her fists were tightly clenched at her side, her face twisted into a glower only reserved for insufferable gits like him at insufferable times such as this. Her heart was still racing from when he had surprised her. "I'm going to _kill_ you, Malfoy," she said between gritted teeth. "I _swear, _I'm going to _kill _you even if it's the last thing I ever do."

Draco shook his head, laughing. He stood up from her chair, leaning against her desk. "It was a _joke,_ you daft cow," he said to her. "As _if_ I'd ever rummage through your things." Draco blatantly shuddered. "Wouldn't want to get infected by your venereal disease."

Hermione's eyes narrowed at him.

"Then, what _exactly_ are you doing here?" she asked him, livid. "_Answer _me so I could _hex_ you the hell out."

Draco crossed his arms, looking coolly at her.

"You're _breaking_ the rules," she furiously continued on when he didn't answer. "I could _report _you and _get_ your egotistical arse _suspended_ from Head Duties, you _prat_." To her misfortune, in more ways than one, he began to smile.

"Go right on ahead, Granger," he said to her. "I'm sure Dumbledore would appreciate the effort on getting your fellow Head partner in some trouble. But, be sure he didn't permit me to be in here in the first place."

His comment struck her like a bucket of ice-cold freezing water slapping her face.

"_What?"_ she asked him, stepping closer. The twinkle in his eyes angered her. It was like glitter. She _hated_ glitter. It was sparkly but it got everywhere and was impossible to clean… and it was itchy. She _hated_ glitter.

"That's right, Granger," he haughtily smirked. "The old kook _permitted_ me to be in here."

"The devil is a liar," she spat.

"_Not_ today," he informed her. "I just had to confiscate some things from our psychotic Head Girl, you understand."

Okay. She was confused.

Hermione shook it away. "_What_ the _hell_ are you talking about?" she demanded. "I _swear_, if I _ever_ find out you're just toying with me, bloody _hell_, I'm going to make _sure_ you won't ever reproduce, you _loathsome_—" Um, all right, it involved a wooden table, some leather binds, a very sharp knife, a very, very sharp knife, a blunt knife, a wooden board to bash atop of his head to knock him out.

"These," Draco interrupted, as he slid aside, revealing an assortment of multi-colored bottles behind him.

Hermione gaped at the gather, her eyes wide.

He couldn't take those away from her. He just _couldn't_. Why on _earth_ would anyone _want_ to?

"Where did you find those?" she asked, her voice strained and full of panic. "Give them back to me, Malfoy."

"Predictable Granger, as always," he taunted. "In your drawers, of course. First place I thought of, since it was the last place you'd hide them." He knew that the side drawers were the most predictable place to hide anything, besides the cabinets or anything of the sort. He knew Hermione would think that people would assume that she _clearly_ wouldn't hide her nighttime helpers in there because it was far too obvious. So that's why she hid it in there. Draco was rather proud of himself for getting to have known her so damned well.

Hermione swiftly stepped forwards and tried to snatch them back, but Draco stepped up and caught her firmly, his fingers digging into her arms as she resisted.

_Damn_ those Quidditch practices for making him so strong.

And _damn_ whatever cologne he used to make him smell so good.

"_Let_ me _go_, Malfoy," she hissed, trying to twist free from his grasp. "Give them back to me."

In truth, the way she smelled made his head cloud up again. His mind seemed to only be focusing on trying to carry out his sinful desire — which was to snog her senseless until she was well over delirious, but he _had_ to fight it.

No _matter_ how tempting the action seemed.

But, honestly. Who knew hair could smell so good? And from a psychotic, overworked, spastic girl? He certainly would have never guessed.

"You _know_ why I had to do this, Granger," he told her coldly. "Dumbledore said so himself. This is an _intervention_, you basketcase. And it'd be best for all if you'd just comprehend that you've clearly gone mad and _cooperate_."

"Cooperate_?"_ she shouted shrilly, jerking away from his hold and stepping back. Her eyes were ablaze and fierce as they looked into his defiantly. Draco was convinced all she had to do was start to twitch and she'd officially be mental and creepy. "_Cooperate_ on _what_?"

"Can you bloody _count_?" he snapped at her. "Do you _see_ how many — bloody _hell, _Granger! You have _ten_ bloody Insomniac potions! _Ten_!"

"So?" she retaliated. "It _works_! _I_ work! It _helps_ me!"

When, really, all she wanted to yell out was: You can't take away my _babies_! You just _can't_!

"It _isn't_ healthy! It _never_ is!" he exploded at her. "You're becoming too _dependent_ on those bloody potions! Have you even gotten any sleep _at all_, this week?"

"Yes!" she shouted. "I _have_! But I _still_ don't know how the hell this is _any_ of your bloody _business_!"

"They're _all_ in favor of getting your bloody potions taken away, do you know that?" he shouted at her, his voice rising. "The professors, the staff, your _friends_! You've become some _workaholic_, nutty, agonizing, irritating, _sleep-deprived psycho!"_

"It's better than being some lackadaisical twit!" she screamed back. "And you _still_ haven't answered my question!"

"It _isn't_!" he bellowed. "It _isn't_ my business! But I don't _give _a bloody shit, all right, Granger? You're going to _kill_ yourself before the bloody year is even _over_! There's a _word_ for what you're doing — it's called_ overworking_! And what's worse is that you're overworking yourself on _purpose_! You think you're so perfect and that you can do _everything _— but you _can't!_ Come back to _reality_, Granger! Give yourself a _break_!"

And that's when it struck Hermione.

Like a hard, painful slap that she hadn't expected at all.

Except it had nothing to do with the potions or the fact that she was indeed sleep-deprived — she'd known all that before.

He was worried for her.

Draco Malfoy, the yelling, snapping prick standing in front of her at the moment, was here because he was _worried_ for her.

Hermione didn't know whether to laugh hysterically or scream.

In all honesty, she wanted to do both.

From her recent rather astounding revelation, she didn't know how she could possibly remain calm. Her senses were going crazy, as was her mind. She didn't know what to do.

She wanted to hex him.

She wanted to kiss him.

She should kiss him and then hex him. That's what she should do.

"So, you're taking those _away_ from me," she said through her teeth. "What is that supposed to _accomplish_?" she asked him harshly, crossing her arms. "I'm the _editor_, Malfoy. You take _those_ away from me; we'll never have the paper due in time for press. That's going to hurt the _both_ of us."

Draco stepped back, relieved to see that she had, even if it was just a teensy bit, cooled down. She was actually comprehending.

However, she was trying to dead-end him.

But, see, he'd thought of this before.

Draco smirked at her, which gave her a dreadful twisting in her stomach.

He turned and faced the lot of her beloved potions, and with a flick of his wand they vanished before her eyes.

Hermione felt as if a jagged stone had been jammed into her stomach.

My _babies_.

"Oh, and just so you know, Granger," he told her, ignoring her question for the moment, his light silver eyes glittering wickedly. "They've notified all the places you could possibly get your provisions — they're going to restrict you from any further potions."

Hermione was glowering at him very intensely. "_Answer _me, Malfoy," she hissed. "How is _any _of this supposed to help?"

"It's for your well-being," he told her, although he also managed to tell her a few other things that didn't please her too much. "As for the Harmonium, that isn't going to be a problem."

"How do you mean?" she asked him, almost afraid to have done so.

"Easy," he replied, a teasing smirk on his lips though he had said this in a bitter tone. "Ever heard of co-editors, Granger?" He paused. "Learn how to share the power, Granger. You saw what happened to Hitler. Not too happy an ending for the bloke."

"Like _hell_ we are!" she exploded, livid at the fact that she was now going to be forced to do the exact opposite she had promised Harry. "There's _no_ way in _hell_ I'm going to be—" The mere fact that she was this close to him and her stomach was doing cartwheels every tenth of every minute was enough to make her shake in her boots! And now _co-editors_? What was that, like, code for "A Slow and Painful Death"?

"Cooperation, Granger," he reminded her. "Another assignment from your beloved Headmaster," he spat in spite, obviously liking it just as much as she did — which was, none at all. This was another opportunity to get his mind screwed with thoughts of her, after all. He needn't all that — it was already as muddled up as it was, even though he only saw her in classes and some glimpses in the hall, and also the meetings. And even that, he had already known, was more than enough to distract him from his studies and the other matters surrounding him.

But being co-editors meant working _together_. As in _closer than ever before_.

Draco had been angry when he had found out when Dumbledore had owled him of what he was to do after Draco had informed him of the Head Girl's life, or rather, lack thereof, but he knew he couldn't refuse.

Because, first of all: he was Head Boy. Head Boys were _supposed_ to do these sorts of things — preventing a workaholic's doom, especially when the workaholic was the one and only Head Girl, and in other words, his "partner." And second: he knew he couldn't _not_ accept. She was driving him absolutely _mad_. Late at nights, he would think of her — actually, _worry_ was a better word. And Malfoys did _not_ fret on such ridiculous matters such as _girls_. Most especially Muggle-borns with an insufferable addiction to work.

They both knew that the space they had built between them would have to be destroyed after all their hard work. He knew they were going to be risking everything — something was bound to happen. Something was bound to arise from all of this. And something terrible, at that.

"Here," he said after the silence, handing her a parchment. She took it half-heartedly without a word, obviously still in shock.

Like she could stay away from him, _now_.

She knew Harry would absolutely shit a brick when _he_ found out.

"It's from Dumbledore," he informed her. "I've already notified all of the staff — half are assigned to send their work to me from now on."

Hermione felt relieved, of course, but there was also that prickling dread. Working together with Draco Malfoy? Closer than they _had_ been before? Was someone literally _trying_ to ruin her life? She didn't even know how to survive being in the same room with him alone without having those sinful, _evil_ images flash in her head that involved shaking tables. Oh, Merlin! The monstrosity! Was this a _test_? This was a test!

How was she to cure herself of-of this _disease_ if she was forced to spend even more time with him?

"Bloody hell, Malfoy," she found herself unexpectedly saying, desperate for a way to escape. "Why couldn't you have refused? You _know_ how… things are."

Well, shit.

It was obvious that Draco hadn't expected it either; from the look he had on his pale face. He knew exactly what she was talking about, unfortunately. He was just in shock. He thought they were to keep playing this charade: The No, We Hadn't Kissed At All charade they had been keeping up the past month. He wanted to pursue this conversation, ironically, but he knew she would immediately shut him out after he replied to her sudden question.

It was very un-Draco Malfoy-like to want to know what Hermione Granger, out of all the people in the school, thought about any situation, but then again, that had been before.

But earlier he had figured that he would try to pursue it, if trying to ignore it did not work. Because it was his theory that the earlier he pursued it, the earlier it would vanish and finally leave him be. Then afterwards, he would just do what he did best: be the bastard, cut off all strings, attachments, and treat her just like he had before.

It was an evil, devious plan. He knew this. But it was one way to finally get himself out of this _place_, whether it be hell or somewhere in limbo. Besides, he knew that he would quickly get tired of her, just like those past "flings" he had had back at the manor during the summer. After all, she scolded like there was no tomorrow and was always very uptight and snippish. He would probably hate her again in two days' time, maybe less. (He hoped so.) Point was: once they had gotten their fill of each other, everything would be back to normal.

Her hating him, him hating her.

It was a foolproof plan.

Unless, of course, he were to find that he could never let her go and that he could never really get his fill of her, ergo never getting tired of her.

Then, he knew, he would be in absolute hell.

But he shook that away.

That wouldn't happen, he was sure. It was _completely_ unrealistic. How could someone actually still _like_ Granger after spending so much time with her? Why, the idea alone was ludicrous. It was like liking… a walking book that screamed all the time. A book that didn't even have _pictures_.

"I'm _Head Boy_, Granger," he said to her, coldly. "I _can't_ refuse. And, if I did refuse, then _you'd_ still be your mad self, and as you were bound to, with your never-ending, bothersome working, you'd hurt the paper — a project on which, by the sodding way, the _both_ of us worked hard on."

Her face hardened.

'_All right, then,'_ she told herself. '_He did this because of the paper — and his reputation.' _

Though it was quite ridiculous, she found herself bothered by this.

Hermione glowered at him. You selfish little bastard, she wanted to say to him. But if she did, that would only prove how truly stupid and impulsive she was because then that would reveal her secret hope that he had done this because he was concerned about her and that he actually cared.

She wanted to slap herself for actually _hoping_ that.

Hermione exhaled a long, deep and painful breath.

Happy coma.

Finally, once she straightened herself up again, she looked him in the eye, her face serious and stern. There was still that flicker of annoyance and anger in her eyes, but he also saw fear. Fear. This was understandable. He felt fear too. Afraid that things would get out of hand. Afraid that… Granger would hex him.

"You're _fully_ aware that _this_… working together will make things _harder_, aren't you?" she told him, referring to their kiss in the corridor, once again.

Draco's voice remained passive and emotionless. "If I didn't before," he informed her, "I do now."

"Malfoy, be serious," she said, irritated. "Don't toy with me."

"Granger, this is strictly professional," he said, no longer leaning against the edge of her desk. He stepped towards her, making her heart suddenly start to beat at a faster pace. A _much_ faster pace. "There is no requirement that our history should interfere with our duties."

"Malfoy, we're only human," she snapped at him, bothered at how he was speaking to her as if their "kiss" had been nothing major at all.

Because, bloody _hell_, it had been! And it still _was_!

"You can't _expect_ things will go as smoothly as you prefer!" she told him. "It just isn't _ethical_ to accept this considering our current situation—"

"_What_ situation?" he regarded her coldly. "We _have_ no 'current situation', Granger. And, as for expecting, I've _not_ and _will_ not expect a _bloody_ thing, _except_ that we get this done."

Hermione oddly felt a ping of hurt inside her heart from his reckless words. Well, maybe because they weren't _entirely_ reckless. They'd sounded so real, so true. A part of her wanted to just kiss him right there and just suddenly pull back and say, "_There_! _That's_ our bloody situation, you daft, _senseless_ _prick_!" But she didn't want to give him the satisfaction. That, and she knew that hasty actions such as those that often received the reactions she hadn't exactly been hoping for.

"Fine," she huffed, crossing her arms. "I hope you know this isn't going to be easy."

Draco shrugged, stepping back and making his way to her door. "Godspeed, Granger," he said, stopping at her doorway. He turned around to look right at her. "Just expect that we'll be working closely. And, rest up." He smirked at her. "I expect you'll need it. And if I catch you falling asleep on me, you can bet your arse I'm going to hex you."

Still glaring at him, she said, "Likewise, git."

Then he left, comprehending that they now had an understanding, if not a subtle one. The door closed behind him with a firm thud.

"_Damn_," she muttered. She cursed her circumstances, her fate, and her luck — basically anything and everything that landed her at where she was now.

Which was, obviously, hell.

Or somewhere _far_ too near it to actually tell the difference.

Oddly enough, as she stayed there longer, contemplating and thinking of the chaotic mess that was to come, she discovered that his smell was still there. His enigmatic scent still wafted about in her room, and she wondered how long he had actually been there, waiting for her to come back.

She went around, checking her trunk, closet, and drawers.

Nothing was missing besides the potions he — or rather, _they _— had confiscated from her.

She hated to admit it, but he had been telling the truth: he _hadn't_ rummaged through her things, except her drawers where the bottles had been.

Even her "Unmentionables" drawer.

She'd expected the possible worst, reason because she found she could never exactly trust him. And if she did, she feared, he would only let her down. Or worse. Sad as it was, she came to be not so dependable on people, which brought her over to another subject: thank God they rarely had any group assignments. She was always paired with Harry and Ron when one of those rare times hurled at her, yes, and while it wasn't hard… it was frustrating. She more of a do-it-yourself sort of girl. Especially in her assignments area. (Just the thought of putting her grades in someone else's hands was enough to make her feel slightly queasy.) But being partners with Malfoy was the toughest group project she had ever and will ever have in her life. She just had trouble trusting people, and Malfoy was no exception at all.

Which was rather ironic, more or less, considering that they were Head Boy and Girl. One would think that they trusted each other at least a _teensy_ bit, right?

Wrong.

Hermione made her way to her desk, unzipping her jumper and tossing it towards her bed, clinging on the edge. She sighed as she noticed that Draco had left her wand right beside her quills, hidden behind her textbooks.

'_Clever move,'_ she thought cynically and somewhat bitterly as she moved it from behind her textbooks. She stared at it. '_Knew he was going to get his egotistical arse hexed, so he hid it. Not well enough to infuriate me, not well enough to go around looking for it for hours, but well enough to only find it after he'd left. I think I don't give the bastard enough credit, the little cretin.'_

She sat down, managing to calm herself down from their little "meeting" or whatever word was fit for whatever they had just done (she couldn't think of one at the moment), as she just noticed the stack of papers sitting on the far side of her table, right next to her picture of Harry, Ron, and her taken the year before. Curious, she reached over and retrieved it.

After the astonishment had worn off, Hermione found herself smiling faintly as she saw what it was. "Why, the insufferable brute _actually_ finished it," she chuckled, feeling as if a large burden upon her heart had been miraculously lifted off. For once in her life, she actually felt like walking over to his door, knocking, and thanking him.

(But just because she felt that didn't mean she was actually going to go and do it, therefore making an absolute fool of herself.)

However, as she flipped through all of them, edited neatly and ready for magical-press-printing the next morning, she found herself staring at a note from Professors Severus Snape and Minerva McGonagall.

Not only had he done her share of the editing, but he'd also gone and… gotten her excused from her essays in both classes. It wasn't a full-on excuse, for a full-on excuse meant that she didn't have to do it (though Hermione wouldn't stand for such a thing, anyway), since Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall were the two most notorious and stern professors in Hogwarts, but it was simply a note, excusing her from the deadlines the next morning and delaying the due date of her assignments until two days after, a Thursday.

Hermione sighed, looking down at the note.

Mr. Rogers would kill her.

**Please Review!**


	22. Hermione Officially Hates Quidditch

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: Seriously? You aren't convinced yet that I don't, in fact, own Harry Potter?

**Hermione Officially Hates Quidditch**

Needless to say, her evenings spent alone with Draco in the common room – editing papers and listening him criticize their writing – were indeed frustrating.

She didn't know why, but Dumbledore insisted that they do the Harmonium work in the common room _together_, at the _same_ time. He wouldn't give a reason — a valid one, anyway. He'd fed all the "He is your partner, Miss Granger, and it would be best if you learned to spend more time with each other to improve your friendship," and the "He is only looking out for you, Miss Granger," and even the "We — Mister Malfoy and I — mean well," to her already. He'd practically shoved them down her throat. He didn't even bother to hand her any more explanations or reasons when she persistently asked again and again, and instead gave her a knowing, _awfully_ annoying smile. And she didn't know what he had told Draco for she could never muster the nerve to ask.

But as they spent at least three or four nights a week working together in the common room on the sequential issues of the Hogwarts Harmonium, she found the disdain and coldness he often embedded on his face whilst they were together slowly, ever so slowly, soften.

Soon, it just a mere glower or scowl every now and then.

And also some curses spoken to her or the paper when he was feeling extra special.

(But enough about Draco Malfoy. He'll come in again later.)

Predictably, she found herself feeling quite blue and empty without the endless piles of work in her life. She went to bed at twelve in the evening when she was not due for the patrol, and even then she'd sometimes be scrounging around for some extra work to do, which was pathetic if you thought about it, but Hermione made it a point not to think about. Ever. But then, like there were two sides to the same existing coin, she was relieved. She was glad that she finally had some free time and sleep. She was happy that she was no longer feeling as if she was to drop dead from exhaustion when she was in the hallways or class. She even had time to check, re-check, and check her work again. She spent more time with Ginny, Harry, and Ron and even helped Neville on his assignments once or twice and assisted in helping him look for Trevor three times this week.

Except that she damn well missed being busy. Seriously, it wasn't as cool as she'd thought it would be, not having any work to do. But usually she just blamed it all on the sudden withdrawal – this miserable depression of hers – and refused the antidepressants her parents sent her through owl. They had friends who worked on special cases of depression, and they got it for free when they'd told them about their daughter. Her parents were very nice people, they were, but Hermione could not help but get a little angry when they managed to include some "Special" medicine along with it. "Special" meaning crazy pills for crazy people.

(Like her. But it's not like she'd actually admit it.)

The worst part? She'd forgotten to take it out of her satchel when the Owlery had been closed for the day, thus she hadn't been able to send it back with a reprimanding letter to the Grangers. She'd brought the same satchel to her Harmonium Time (she thought it sounded cheery and not as sad as it actually was; like Pee Wee's Playhouse, that was a cheery name for a twisted thing) and somehow she'd managed to spill it all out on the ground and the bottle went rolling over to…

Well, not Pee Wee Herman, that was for certain.

Draco Malfoy, surprisingly, knew exactly the prescription it was, which then launched her off into a whole twisted Q&A (that included shouting) with him. Although, sadly, she didn't manage to win – he'd gotten her instead, as she _was_ the one with the bottle, and he was not. It was a fun discussion, in that sick Quentin Tarantino way. (Because Draco Malfoy seemed to have extensive knowledge about Muggle crazy pills.) But she still hated him for saying that she was nutty. (Even though she was, she just couldn't ever admit it.)

He treated her just as he had before, except without the Mudblood jokes, though he would throw one in just for the hell of it every now and then. She knew he only did it because he knew well enough that no matter how many times it was used or overused, it still hurt her. Even if it was just a little twinge. He had guts, he certainly did; he was always testing her limits. Sometimes she couldn't even bring herself to talk to him, let alone yell at him for being such an arse. That was the worst bit, because she had every right to, and what was stopping her now? That bloody M-word hadn't changed since second year, and neither had he.

There was a satisfied look about him whenever he hurt her, like it was some of the revenge he'd like to inflict on her. He did this when he was angry with her, though sometimes she never knew how she could've possibly made him angry. Probably just for existing, she supposed.

But there was one particular time that she found herself thinking about, late at night, when she could not sleep. Once she'd looked up at him when they'd been working, and she'd caught him staring at her funnily. It gave her shivers when she thought about it because of the look on his face and the daze in his eyes – it was a frightening visual. He'd never really looked at her that way before, as if… well, she wasn't going to go ahead and say it, was she? That would be humiliating. But he was just _different_ sometimes. Of course, when he'd finally caught on that she was looking at him as if he had just grown three heads (sequentially), his face had resumed in its habitual scowling and sneering. His eyes became beady again and he called her a Mudblood – after telling her that he only just realized that if someone looked at her really closely she looked like a disfigured otter, to which she responded with a quip about his uncanny resemblance to ferrets, which was hysterical, because it somehow always got him.

So that was a lovely bonding moment.

(Although, she'd gone to her room that night and looked in the mirror. Malfoy was definitely wrong; she looked _nothing_ like an otter. And how did a disfigured otter look like, anyhow? Demented prick.)

Over time it came to be deathly frustrating. On the exterior, she was reading and editing calmly, but in the interior her thoughts were rushing at her with the same impact, force, and speed of a bloody stampede. He'd tell her things that made her self-conscious and always somehow concluded in her threatening to hex him or poison him. She'd pinched him once, which was sort of fun, until he pinched her back and almost made her bleed. She blurted heinous things sometimes when she got angry enough (ah, those Granger glibs) and she absolutely _hated_ it when he laughed because he looked so good – er, ugly, doing it. She'd want to just get herself away from him as fast as she could, but then she'd have the sudden impulse to reach over the table, grab him by his collar, and kiss him until he turned blue. And she could have sworn that that hadn't been a problem before, the tempting notion of punishing him by suffocating him with her mouth.

Hermione sighed as she found herself entering the bleak and colorless room of the hospital wing again. This was the fourth time this week, and though Ron was one of her best friends, she didn't favor being around him so much as to visit him _four_ times a week. This time she was alone. Harry had Quidditch practice along with Ginny, and Seamus and Dean had detention with Professor McGonagall for some missed assignments and tardy arrivals.

Aside from the fact that she still had to inform him that she had to appoint another Quidditch Expert, she had no other reason for visiting him.

In other words, Hermione was visiting him now, simply because of boredom.

Harry, Ginny, her and some other members of the Gryffindor House often visited him in the hospital wing, and they'd just gone to visit him yesterday afternoon. It was about last week she'd been glad to see him back to his stubborn, annoying self, which meant that he was certainly well (for very sick people were rarely annoying, even if they really were in real life). He'd asked for a lot of sweets from Honeyduke's in his first week in the infirmary guaranteed to send him straight into a sugar high, which Harry and Seamus had gotten whilst another trip to Hogsmeade the next day, and which Hermione had dangled out of the window for about two whole minutes in one of her spiels about sugar for sick people.

It wasn't unusual for Ronald Weasley to hold grudges, so she was rather surprised and relieved that Ron didn't blame anyone for his accident that night. In fact, as stupid as it was, he was ridiculously happy that they'd gotten his new strategy right that day. What brought a rain cloud to hover over him was the fact that he was suspended from Quidditch until Madam Pomfrey permitted him to be back at the Pitch again. He wasn't very happy about that. He'd tried to convince Madam Pomfrey that his Quidditch Activity Suspension was preposterous and absurd since he'd healed very quickly, but predictably the stern Medi-Witch could not be swayed from her terms, even with two whole bribes of chocolate frogs.

So, being stuck in the awful positions of being his friends, Ginny, Harry, Seamus, and Hermione had to take turns trying to lighten the mood. Now, Harry and Ginny had already tried to cheer him up since his daily activity was just to mope and sulk about his absence from Quidditch and the absence of Quidditch in his current life, and Harry didn't fail to remind her that it was her turn to attempt to cheer him up. Though Hermione considered it to be an impossibility, considering that Quidditch was literally the love of her best friend's life, she accepted.

It was a challenge, after all. She felt she needed a challenge.

Hermione smiled faintly as Ron's bed came into view and she saw his pale freckled face twisted into a solemn frown. He had had the same expression over the past week so much she wouldn't be surprised if after he had been released from the infirmary it'd be permanently embedded onto his face.

His fiery red hair stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the pale walls and beds. He didn't look up when she sat down at the foot of his bed, equipped with a small paper bag in her hand that contained five chocolate frogs.

She shifted in her seat, trying to make herself comfortable. She knew she was going to be here awhile. "Ronald, it _isn't_ the end of the world if you miss a few practices and matches, you know," she told him, breaking the silence.

Ron finally looked up and scowled at her. "It might as well be," he said.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Ron. Don't you have a life _besides_ Quidditch? Maybe you could catch up with your reading or something."

He shot her a disgusted look. "_Honestly_, Hermione," he retaliated, "what's a life _without_ Quidditch? And, besides," he said smugly. "I don't think Madam Pomfrey would permit me to read in my condition."

Hermione knew from the look he was shooting her and the tone of his voice that he was talking about her. "A life without Quidditch is a splendid, productive one," she smiled proudly. "And she _would_ let you read here if you'd just—"

"Yeah? I heard you were just cured of the zombie-syndrome," he said, leaning back onto his pillow. He frowned at her. "_What_ a _life_. I also heard that they'd confiscated ten bottles of those fancy-shmancy Insomniac Potions. What were you _thinking_, Hermione?" he said, speaking to her as if she'd done something impeccably stupid. (She disagreed.) "_Ten_? _No one_ could need that much. That's just, entirely… _mad_."

Hermione shot him an irritated look, his statements striking a nerve. "They helped me," she simply said to him. Her voice was tight and clipped.

"_Helped_ you?" he scoffed. "Did you know that those have side-affects? Who _knows_ what could've happened to you! You could've just simply dropped _dead_ in the middle of the hallway!"

Hermione swallowed hard, gritting her teeth.

'_Side-affects,'_ her mind repeated, dumbfounded. _'Did you even read the label?'_

'_Of course I did,_' she answered back. _'It didn't say _anything_ about side-affects. Ron's just making up rubbish to frighten me and make me feel like an idiot.'_

She glowered at him. "Well, I'm not dead _yet_," she snapped at him. "_I'm_ not the one in the bloody _hospital wing_ because of mere stupidity!"

"_Hey!"_ he exclaimed. "That _wasn't_ stupidity! It was _determination_! And yes, you could _so_ be in the hospital if they hadn't broken into your room and forced you to stop taking them! Now _that's_ stupid!"

"Oh, shut up, Ron," she retaliated harshly. "You _know_ it was stupid, pulling that stunt out on the Pitch. Do you even _know_ how Harry _felt_ afterwards? _Do_ you?"

Ron scowled at her. "I apologized," he said to her. "You saw me."

"But, still, Ron," she said, sighing, running a hand through her locks. "You _can't_ just… you know how Harry is—"

"I know," he snapped. "I _know_ how he is."

Hermione gave him a sympathetic look. She looked away, looking behind her and then checking if Madam Pomfrey was nearby. Fortunately, she was not. Though she and Ron were not really speaking of any secrets or confidential business, she could not bear the thought of a respected member of the Hogwarts staff of authorities overhearing them. Who knows _what_ the professors spread around with their verbal blabbing during meals.

"Look, I'm sorry. It wasn't your fault."

Ron looked away, still frowning.

Hermione sighed again, feeling a bit guilty from the way she had snapped at him. But what could she do? He had begun to rub that whole incident with the Insomniac Potions in her face! She _had_ to retaliate! An eye for an eye, _remember_?

"Here," she said to him. She held out the bag as he looked towards her. He shot her a curious look, suspicious of what was in the bag, as if it held some virus contained in it, like smallpox. She reached in and took out a chocolate frog, shaking it and smiling. "Chocolate frogs," she simply said. She threw it to him and he caught it easily as she stood up and set the bag on the side table. "Your favorite."

Ron nodded, as he opened the box and inspected the card. "Dumbledore again," he groaned, tossing it away, nearly hitting Hermione.

Hermione glared at him.

"Sorry," he said as he broke a piece of the frog off. He offered a piece to her, but she declined.

She sat down again, looking towards the tall windows on the other side of the infirmary, listening to Ron chomp down on his chocolate. She figured hearing it couldn't be worse than actually witnessing it with her own eyes.

"So… Ron," she said after his third chocolate frog. Ron looked towards her, and she went on. "Do you know how you were suspended from Quidditch for a bit?"

Ron nodded, grimacing. "Unfortunately," he replied sourly. "I do. I'm in _total_ agony, Hermione," he groaned.

"Yeah, exactly," she said. "Well, here's the thing: you were suspended from other things as well."

Ron's ears perked up with curiosity, still chewing. He had a smear of chocolate on his cheek. Hermione had no idea how it got there. "You're joking," he said.

Hermione shook her head.

Ron started to laugh as he licked his fingers. "_Please_ tell me I got suspended from Potions," he pleaded.

Hermione shook her head. "Actually, you aren't suspended from any of your classes," she told him.

He moaned despairingly. "Then what good is a suspension _for_?" he muttered, running a hand through his red hair. He sighed and leaned back down on his pillow. He looked at her. "What am I suspended from, then? _Meals?"_

"No, of course not," responded Hermione. "Madam Pomfrey —"

"Evil _cow_," he mumbled under his breath.

"— she told me that you were to drop everything else except your classes. And, so, she made me suspend you from your duty as the Quidditch Expert on the Harmonium."

Ron looked surprised. "You're serious," he laughed.

"_Dead_ serious," she said. But Ron, being the immature prat that he was, started to laugh again. Hermione scowled at him. "Ron, _stop_ laughing. Be _serious_!"

Hermione could only wait as he calmed himself down, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. She had tried her best to refrain herself from grabbing something nearby and hurling it at his face. Hermione knew that she had rather good aim when she wanted to. "I don't know how you could _possibly_ find that funny," she said to him when he'd ceased his laughter, her eyes narrowing into thin slits. "I am _now_ stuck with the brutal and horrible job of finding _another_ journalistic Quidditch buff. _Again_."

"Oh, I'm sure it won't be _so_ hard, Hermione," he smiled amusedly.

"You're _only_ smiling and saying that because you know I'm in an even _worse_ position than _you_ are!" she cried. Ron started to laugh again. "_Ron!"_ she cried out.

"You are _totally_ right, Hermione," he chuckled. "I lied. It's going to be as hard as hell."

Hermione glowered at him. "Merlin, _thanks_, Ron," she bitterly said to him. "I feel _so_ much better."

"Pleasure," he grinned.

Hermione let out a frustrated sigh. "Ican'tbelieve you take joy in seeing my pain," she said, in an annoyed and aggravated tone. "You're _supposed_ to be helping me. You're my _friend_."

Ron shrugged. "There are certain matters when _friends_ can only stand by and watch helplessly," he told her. "Sorry, Hermione."

Hermione frowned and suppressed a moan of desperation. "What am I going to do?" she asked him. "Do you know how _difficult_ it was the _first_ time? How could I _possibly_ find a Quidditch Expert in time for the next issue?" Hermione let out a ragged long sigh. "Oh, for heaven's sake. I hate being editor."

"Hermione, don't fret," he said. "You'll find someone, I'm sure. They can't _all_ be writing-disabled."

"And you'd know that _how_…?"

Ron responded to this again with a shrug. "Common sense, I suppose," he said. "And optimism."

"Ah, optimism," she sighed. "Of _course_."

Ron grinned at her. "Two issues have passed, haven't they?" he asked her, referring to the number of issues of the Harmonium had been released since the start of his stint in the hospital wing.

"One," she corrected him. "The next one is due out in two days."

"What did you put in the Quidditch section?" he curiously asked her, slightly baffled.

"I filled the section up with pictures Colin had taken from the last two matches," she told him. "Like a sort of collage. But I already used up all the pictures — I need to find someone, or at least _have_ something for the next issue. I think I'll get twice as many hexed letters if I take out the Quidditch page because of the absence of a Quidditch columnist."

Ron nodded. "Well, then, what are you going to do, Hermione?"

"That's just it – I don't know. What _should_ I do?"

"_You're_ the clever one," he said, looking at her as if she had just asked him to kiss a blast-ended skrewt. "The _'Mastermind'_ behind the Hogwarts Harmonium. I don't know why you'd ask _me_."

"Because _you _know how Quidditch fans work," she explained. "_You_ know what they like, what will keep them content and satisfied and _discourage_ them from sending me any more hate-mail. _I_, on the other hand, am absolutely clueless."

"Well, you arrange the advertisements, am I right?"

Hermione slowly nodded, trying to figure out where he was going with this.

"Make a notification about the new spot-opening, and put it there instead of the column. They'll flock right to you, Hermione," he said to her, smiling proudly because of his idea. "Like a load of filthy starving pigeons to a bowl of spilled food on the floor."

Whoa.

Well, this was new. Nobody had warned her that Ron had been going to lapse into rare moments of cleverness today.

Hermione looked at him, surprised. "Merlin," she stammered. "Um, good idea, Ron."

"I know," he said smugly, taking in the glow of his clever idea for the minute. "Don't know how _you _never thought of it."

Hermione shot him a look. "Don't push it, Ronald."

Ron only grinned at her as he reached for his last chocolate frog, continuing his little snack break. "Are you really going to be staying long?" he asked her out of the blue after a pause of silence and he finished his chocolate frog.

Hermione looked up at him, surprised by his question.

It seemed Ron was doing that to her quite a lot today.

"I suppose not," she said, baffled. "Since I'm clearly not wanted."

Ron shook his head, and Hermione saw a bit of nervousness on his face, which intrigued her. She looked at him inquisitively.

"It isn't that. It's just, Ginny's supposed to fetch Luna and visit me…"

Oh. A Girl.

"Oh," said Hermione before she fell into a lapse of silence, coming to a sudden realization. She realized that was why Ron had always wanted Luna to tag along on their trips to Hogsmeade. Hermione only asked herself why she hadn't seen it before. She was also a little bit peeved, just a little, because suddenly Ronald was kicking her out of the hospital wing to be with Loony – er, Luna Lovegood. When had this started happening? Ron getting _positive_ attention from females?

He turned a bright shade of red. "Hermione?" he asked her, seeing the look of mild surprise on her face.

"I didn't know you fancied her, Ron," she finally spoke, after contemplating. She still felt a bit guilty because of her absence in the world around her. "I mean… you know, I had always thought you liked Parvati." Yes, the sordid Snog Fests must have been a _clear_ misapprehension.

Ron grinned crookedly and shyly, still blushing. "I did," he replied, trying to fix his hair and tame it by attempting to flatten it down with his hands. Didn't work too hot, but Hermione wasn't going to be the one to tell him that. "Before. But Parvati was always off with her friends, and Luna, ever since last year, she's changed. She stayed behind, and we got to talking. And I realized, right before the accident… that, I, you know, had _those_ feelings for her."

"Oh," she said again. "Well, that's nice, Ron," she told him, still slightly shocked, because Parvati had been rather out of his league. Even she could have told him that it'd never work out between the two of them. And she might have, once or twice, in one of her jealous fits (she'd fancied him quite a lot, remember? Remember?) – actually, screamed it at him, which perhaps didn't help much. They'd ended up throwing things at each other. But hey, look at where they were now.

Yes, not too good an example. Nothing had really changed, save for the fact that they'd realized it would never work out, because Hermione was too Hermione for Ron and Ron was too Ron for Hermione.

Ron nodded, looking embarrassed. "I suppose."

"I'm just a bit surprised, because… Luna, she's a rather strange girl… But I'm glad you fancy her, Ron," she told him reassuringly. "She's a nice person. Bizarre, but nice."

"She is," he said. "And I know she's odd, but I haven't met anyone like her. She's fun to be with. She's different from other girls."

Yeah, no kidding. No other girl would read a newspaper upside-down.

"What about _you_, Hermione?" he suddenly said, plunging uncaringly into her personal life just like she had warned him _never_ to do, cocking his head to the side and looking at her intently. His face had evened out its color, no longer a shade of bright red. "Any bloke _you're_ smitten with?"

"What?" she said, flustered. "No, of course not."

"You _sure?"_

She blinked. "Why – do I look it? I mean, do I _look_ like I fancy anyone right now?" Because now she was getting a little paranoid. Was it possible that one's personal appearance could change when one was smitten with a self-absorbed cad? Her hand suddenly flew up to her nose. "Is it my nose? I looked in the mirror the other day and I _thought_ it'd been looking a lot funnier lately –"

Ron was looking at her, confused. "So you really are, then? Smitten with someone?"

"What? No, of course not," she said.

"Then what's all this about your nose?"

"I don't know, I thought you'd tell me."

"About your nose?"

"Yes."

"I mean, because Harry's been mentioning that you're—"

"Nose has been looking funny?"

"_What_?" he said, now thoroughly confused with her, his eyes squinting. "Your nose – _no_, Hermione. This has _nothing_ to do with your nose. I'm talking about Harry coming into our dormitories and asking if you'd told me anything about fancying a bloke –"

"Well," she said, getting defensive, "what'd you tell him?"

"I told him no. Because you haven't. But are you? I'd hate to think that you're keeping secrets from us all the time now, especially with what happened with those potions, which you hadn't even bothered to tell us about." He sighed. "What's going on, Hermione? And be quick, because Luna's coming any minute now. I don't need one of your monologues – if I did, I'd ask Shakespeare, but I'm asking you."

"No," she said firmly. "No, I'm not interested in anybody, that's what's going on. Short enough for you?"

He was silent for a moment, looking at her. He nodded. "Whatever you say, Hermione. Whatever you say." Didn't look like he believed her, though, but she didn't really care.

Hermione got up from his bed, a bit stiffly. "Well, I ought to go. I cheered you up, didn't I? Or should the credit go to the chocolate frogs? Or what about Luna?" she said, as she stood up.

Ron let out a small chuckle. "It was a bit of everything, but it was Luna who got me to stop moping… for a bit, anyway. The chocolate frogs helped, too. But thanks, Hermione, for knowing the importance of chocolate to a depressed person."

She smiled a little. "Well, I'm off. Oh, and since you feel the need to push your friends out during a kind visit and looking good for Luna, I think you should know you have a bit of chocolate on your cheek," she raised her hand, motioning on her own face where it was. "Just there." And as he sent her a look and tried to rub it off, Hermione was already walking towards the doors of the infirmary.

"Lay off those Insomniac potions, Hermione!" she heard Ron call out to her when she stepped out. Hermione only frowned, ignoring his comment, feeling her shoulders become heavy with the bad fortune to be the one in another search of a Quidditch Expert, once again.

Sure, Ron had solved a part of her problem, but was it really going to be as easy as she hoped? She knew more people were now interested in working for the Hogwarts Harmonium, but she hoped that there was at least _one_ journalistic Quidditch buff out in that sea of people who were interested. She prayed and wished profusely that it wouldn't be such a discouraging, exhausting hassle this time. It was those times she was driven into tears and desperation.

Because, somehow, those were the times she found herself desperately seeking help from Draco Malfoy.

oooo

That night, Draco and Hermione were to work on the last touches and revisions on the next issue of the Hogwarts Harmonium. They always worked inside the common room, since it was only logical to do so. (Or, in other words: both didn't want the other inside their room. For very obvious reasons. Draco said he was afraid he'd find a whole room full of Muggle crazy pills. Hermione had feigned laughter until she'd rightly stomped on his foot. Didn't make him bleed, though, but she was working on it.)

When Hermione had stepped out of her room, closing her door behind her and clutching her supplies, she found that Draco was already ahead of her. He was already working, writing furiously on the parchment, and Hermione figured he was editing one last piece though the deadline had been yesterday.

She walked towards him without a word and settled her things right across from him. His eyes flickered when he saw her.

"Granger," he acknowledged. "How are the Muggle crazy pills treating you?"

A-hah. Good one.

Hermione pursed her lips and sat down stiffly. Her heart began to race at a fast pace, and she suddenly felt as if the room had gotten unusually hot. "Wouldn't know," she replied coolly, setting up her own things, letting him know that he wasn't going to get her this time. "Sent them back to my mum and dad."

"Why? Wrong prescription? Thought so. I reckon you need one of the stronger ones. You know, the one for special cases."

She glared at him, and he snorted at her. Sighing to steady herself, she fished out her quill and uncapped her inkbottle as she set it down on the table. She went over the pieces and began to work on the layout.

After working silently and independently for about fifteen minutes, Hermione found herself proudly smiling down at her accomplishment.

"Granger," she suddenly heard him say. She looked up at him and was startled – almost jumped out of her seat, actually – when she found him at her side.

"What?" she asked him coolly, after clearing her throat.

"Let me have a look at it," he told her, as he stood closely beside her.

"But why?" she found herself saying, feeling nervous at the sudden lack of space between them. She also caught his scent, which made her feel a little lightheaded and her mouth a little dry. The wooziness strengthened, and she tried to shake it away. "What bloody cologne do you use?" she snipped, not liking the way she was feeling right now. "It's giving me a headache."

"Cologne?" said Draco. "I don't use anything, Granger. What you smell is natural heaven, no spritzing needed." He then sniffed her before leaning his head back. "Which is more than I can say for you."

(But Draco was lying, because he knew that she smelled rather nice. Like vanilla.)

That was when she knew it was something other than his scent. She had a prickling feeling this was the side-affects Ron had been talking about back at the hospital wing. Hermione closed her eyes for a brief moment, patiently waiting for the dizzy, faint feeling – or rather, what felt like a head rush, only five times worse – to stop. It did, but she couldn't help but taste a bile liquid in her mouth as she attempted to moisten her mouth.

Draco, however, was completely oblivious to her. He had turned his attention to the Harmonium. When he came across the next page, his hand froze as he began to turn it. An ad in place of the Quidditch Page had caught his eye.

"My, my, my," he said, and Hermione turned her focus to him.

"What?"

"What is this?" he asked her.

Hermione sighed. "A notification for the new open spot of the Harmonium's Quidditch Expert," she wearily explained. Somehow, even just the thought of it already made her feel tired.

Draco began to smirk as he flipped the page. "Ah, yes, Weasley," he said, obvious glee and amusement in his voice. "What a shame. I only wish I could've been there to have seen it."

"_Shut up_, Malfoy," she automatically snapped at him. "He could've _died_."

It was only moments later when Hermione knew had said the wrong thing.

"Like I said," he drawled, smirking, looking her straight in the eye. "What a shame the red-mopped twit _still_ managed to survive. He's _just_ like Potter. Can't _ever_ _die_. What _is_ it about you Gryffindors?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed at him, full of venom. "And here I thought you had _finally_ grown up, Malfoy," she said lowly. "I suppose I was wrong." Which had been a stupid thing to say, really, because he was still shooting quips her way about the Muggle crazy pills and whatnot. That wasn't grown up at _all_. She didn't know why she'd said it – probably because she couldn't think of anything else right now.

Draco froze, as his eyes were already halfway down the page. Her words created a flopping sensation inside his stomach. His eyes flickered up at her, about to retaliate – until she said more.

"That's awfully low of you," she continued on. "Insulting my friends to infuriate me."

Draco's head turned towards her, and she was merely met with another smirk. She twitched a little, wanting to slap it off of his face.

All Draco could manage was a smirk. Though he wanted to shout at her and try to make her understand that it was all he could do (make fun of her dim-witted friends) because of the position he was in. It was either that or snog her to death. All right, maybe not as grotesque as that, but it would still involve vigorous snogging. Either way, he had a feeling she would rather the former. Even if he explained to her the utter torture it was to see her every night and be with her in the same room (_alone_) and not be able to snog her like he liked and the way it tied knots across his whole being, she wouldn't understand. Even when it was clear she felt the same way, she still wouldn't ever admit it. Like the fact about those Muggle crazy pills. She should take them. She didn't, though, because she had vast denial issues.

"Don't act as if _you're_ the holy ones," he simply told her. "You've got a forked tongue yourself, Granger, and I bear witness… _and_ claim as a victim."

Hermione glowered at him. Because what else was she supposed to do? She could stomp right down on his foot, and she was planning to, by already thinking about how much force she should exert in order to make his toe bleed, but as she looked at him, an idea struck her. Her gaze lingered on him for a minute, watching him as he studied the layout. The scowl quickly melted away as realization dawned on her.

Her gaze darted to the paper and then back at him.

Just then, she slammed her hand down on the layout in front of him, and he jumped, startled.

"Bloody _hell_, Granger!" he exclaimed, looking at her irritatingly. "_What_ in Merlin's name did you do _that_ for?"

Caught completely in her idea, she stepped closer to him.

Her brown eyes sparkled in a way that made Draco's heart jump so violently that it should have been considered as a health hazard. Oddly enough, as she came closer to him, he could feel the heat radiating from her body, and he found it was rather hard to sustain himself from suddenly going at her and attacking her mouth. He told himself, No, No, No, No. Kiss her and you'll get a disease. A really bad one that'll give you sores and make your hair fall out. And you like your hair. You have very sexy hair.

But as she licked her lips, a nervous habit of hers, he found himself using all his willpower not to just suddenly tackle her.

She was so close she was driving him absolutely mad.

He even thought of suddenly pushing her away – far, far away – to contain himself, but he knew that she would whip out her wand and hex him even before he had risen up his hands to shove her away. He told himself to step back. He couldn't. He told himself again.

He didn't.

So that was a negative.

"The Quidditch Expert, Malfoy," she told him, looking him straight in the eye, no matter how furiously her heart was hammering in her chest.

Draco was thrown off his fantasy of having her right there on the table.

"_What?"_ he asked her. He clearly hadn't heard her since his mind had taken to its own imaginary course, but he thought he had heard her asking him to be the Quidditch Expert. An incredibly weak and moronic job, in his opinion.

Hermione sighed, but kept on her straight face. "The Quidditch Expert. The position," she told him.

"What about it?" he drawled, as if bored. He was bothered his fantasy was interrupted by the mention of a degrading job.

"The position, on the Harmonium."

He gave her an odd look, still not clear on what she was talking about.

"I want you to take it," she said simply.

In return, Draco gave her a just as simple reply:

"No."

Hermione's heart fell, a crestfallen look on her face. But, being the stubborn and persistent Hermione Granger, there was no way she would take no for an answer. She thought he owed it to her, for all of the horrible things he'd done. Actually, he owed her more, but she was willing to take this measly thing. He should be _thanking_ her.

"The Quidditch Expert," she said, trying again. "It's _perfectly_ reasonable, Malfoy. You're one of the most notorious, fierce, but _skilled_ Quidditch players, _and_ you've got the second highest grades in the school. You obviously _know_ how to _write_."

He gave her an irritated look. "_No_," he said to her, though he had to admit, he was awfully flattered. Even though he was aware of the fact that the girl standing in front of him didn't have a single clue about Quidditch. So that sort of canceled things out. "I _don't_ want to be the _bloody_ Quidditch Expert, Granger."

Hermione's brown eyes pleaded at him, making his heart skip a beat against his wishes.

"Please, Malfoy?"

He realized she must've been very desperate by this point to actually _beg_ him. Hermione Granger and begging just did not go together. Did not belong in one sentence. It was like him and… pink frills.

"Well, then, I have a question: what's in it for _me_?" he eyed her coolly, crossing his arms and leaning against the edge of the table.

Hermione swallowed hard, finding that look in his eyes strangely alluring and seductive, while, most importantly, realizing that she hadn't thought of what exactly he would gain from taking the position.

Oh, bugger.

She thought hard, racking her mind although it did not help that he was looking at her so intently.

"Speechless, Granger?" taunted Draco, obviously enjoying the fact that she hadn't thought this through. It was simply rich, not to mention most especially rare. His mind also went out of its way to point out the fact that he rather liked the expression on her face when she was racking her mind fiercely at the last minute. It was quite endearing, in that disfigured otter sort of way.

"You heard me. If I supposedly _took _the job and agreed to your rather weak offer, _what_ could I _possibly_ gain that I don't already have?"

Hermione, quite simply, glared at him.

oooo

Hermione was bothered by the fact that she had been clearly dead-ended by Draco Malfoy. Of course, it had been a spontaneous and spur-of-the-moment thing, not to mention unstructured and artless in every way, but she was angry at the fact that he had to taunt her of her lack of ability to quickly think of a plan to trick or somehow convince him into saying yes. As _if_ it was and would ever be that easy.

If she had sprung it on someone other than Draco Malfoy, she liked to think and was almost positive that it would've worked.

_He_ was the problem. _Not_ her. _Not_ her lack of ability to quickly plan spontaneous things.

And so.

This was how Hermione Granger found herself being bombarded with owls and samples the day the issue of the Harmonium came out, as well as the day after. Hermione was quite nervous about what horrible action or new hexed letters – the ones she refused would send to her. She hoped this time it wouldn't be so horrific. She figured she wouldn't open any of them, or she'd at least purchase a Hex-Detector from the new shop that had opened the past week at Hogsmeade if she was going to do so.

In an attempt to get back at Draco and for him to share her pain and boredom that accompanied having to go through the interviews (something she had freshly established for the replacements) of the blokes that had seemed promising to her, she succeeded in convincing him that it was another one of his Head Boy duties.

She had to meet Draco in the common room before they went on to the Meeting Room in the evening for the interviews. This caused and revealed a few problems. One: at least three of the eight she had thought were absolutely superb had been plagiarized from some Quidditch book that she, obviously, had never read. Draco had been rather bothered by that mere thing alone.

Second: there was still his unreasonable and unexplainable grudge against Hufflepuff. He insisted to toss the two samples from Hufflepuff. He reasoned that the grammar was incorrect and horrible, as was the facts. He insisted for what seemed like forever until she relented.

They had but three left to interview.

Draco sent the "Rejection" owls, as he preferred to call them, with a joy that was absolutely strange to Hermione. It seemed to her that Draco liked to cause sadness. Which was not surprising at all, but she thought ("hoped" was an apt word for it) there'd be more to him than that. However, as she watched him scribble down the haste notes, she felt some of that sadness, herself, unknowingly. She secretly hoped inside her that his addiction to be the bringer of sorrow was incorrect and purely biased, therefore not being the truth at all. But she was wrong. She knew it. Everyone knew it. Draco Malfoy was a blob of sadistic joys; he was that shallow.

They made their way to the Meeting Room a few hours later, where the three they had anticipated showed up not a minute later after the written and instructed time. One of the boys was a sixth year Ravenclaw, with not poor or fantastic grades, but decent. Just decent. Hermione was slightly disappointed at this.

The other boy was a fifth year Gryffindor that had high grades in Transfiguration and Herbology, but had failing grades in Potions (not much of a surprise to Hermione) and Charms. He also seemed a bit too eager and hyperactive, which disturbed Draco – as Hermione had taken a glimpse at his face when the boy had been energetically going on about how much he loved Quidditch. Draco hadn't been impressed at all. And, well, as for Hermione, she thought that the boy reminded her all too closely of Colin Creevey in his first year (he had wound down since then, thank God). And Draco in particular had eyed him with distaste.

"So, just asking, I mean, I just want to know… is somebody else going to get it?" he asked so nervously that Hermione winced a little. She hated crushing hopes and dreams.

Draco snorted. "Does the Dark Lord kill?"

Hermione punched him a good one on the arm for that one, because it really wasn't funny. She'd had to apologize profusely to the boy who'd turned ashen from Draco's stupid little analogy. He'd left the room twitching.

"What was that? Are you aware that not very many people think your sick idea of a laugh is funny?"

"Well, then, that isn't my fault, is it?" he'd said back.

The last boy they had to interview was from Slytherin, who Hermione recognized from her DADA class, as he was in their same year. Hermione noticed the bored look on Draco's face as he asked the same questions in his trademark drawl, and though the boy, Kiowa Nichols, answered brilliantly, it appeared that Draco was not even the least bit impressed. He even seemed a bit peeved at the boy, which Hermione wasn't sure if she had imagined or not. The boy was the best of the lot, in her opinion. He had high grades in all of his classes, wrote fantastically (meaning he knew his Their from There) and had been somewhat polite, despite the fact that Hermione got the very clear vibe that there was some bad blood between them.

Especially when Draco had "accidentally" tripped him on his way out.

"Trouble in paradise?" Hermione asked dryly as she looked through the samples again.

"I don't like what you're insinuating, Granger," Draco said.

"What's going on between you two?" she asked, looking up at him. "We can't have our Head Boy holding a sore shoulder to the brand new Quidditch writer."

Draco's head turned to her, looking scandalized. "_What_? _He's_ the brand new Quidditch writer? Oh, gag me, Granger," he said, disgusted. "Honestly, would you stop saying such frivolous things that you have not a single clue about? You don't know Nichols."

"And apparently you do," she said amusedly. "Old lovers, I presume?"

"Your face," he spat.

"Oh, real mature."

"What I'm saying is, you don't know his history. He's a backbiting snob."

"And alike personalities repel, I got it," she noted. "That's why you hate him. Because he's just like you, and you can't take that, can you?"

He glared at her. "Would you shut up for a minute? Do you _want_ to know why we can't possibly have him as the Quidditch Expert? Because he's an _idiot_. He tried to buy his way into the Quidditch team."

Hermione looked at him. "_Wait_," she said, confused. "The _Quidditch_ team? The _Slytherin_ Quidditch team?"

"_No_, the Gryffindor Quidditch team – of _course_ the Slytherin Quidditch team!" he snapped at her.

Hermione sent him a look as she folded her arms across her chest and leaned back on her seat. "Well? What did he do?"

"He knew that he was a horrible Quidditch player, and he tried to bribe me with money." Draco scoffed. "As _if_ I'd take his _stupid_ money. I've already got enough of it as it is."

Hermione sighed. "I don't approve the other two," she simply said, frowning with heavy shoulders. She slumped against her chair, cursing her fate. Why, oh God, why? Why was she stuck with a prick that had problems with every _single_ person in the world? "I suppose this means we've got to hunt around."

Now, on contrary to popular belief, Draco didn't really like to cause Granger such a dreary, aggravating time with this whole looking-for-another-Quidditch-fanatic-idiot. He wasn't that much of a cad. He liked to grate her nerves with his quips and daily taunts about her wretched appearance (which were mostly exaggerations, because, believe it or not, she was actually more good-looking than any other girl in the school) (but it wasn't as if he'd ever actually tell her that), but it was obvious to him that this whole Harmonium business was a lot more than she could handle. She'd never admit so, but he could tell.

But the truth of the matter was simply that the boys _sucked_. There was someone out there who would do a jolly good job, but they were playing hard to get. And it wasn't as if Draco was a perfectionist or anything like that… he just didn't like what had been brought up.

He stared ahead, thinking to himself, before hearing her shift around in her seat. When he managed to tear himself away from his thoughts, he looked beside him and found himself staring up at her as she was already preparing to leave.

"Where are you going?" he dumbly asked her.

"My room," she told him, smoothing out her robes. "There's nothing else we can do for tonight. I suggest you get some rest as well. Who knows what torturous matters tomorrow holds for us." She sounded weary.

She gave him a very, very small and slight smile (almost so that Draco could not even recognize it, but oddly – as if he'd gained new super powers that enabled him to detect microscopic smiles from deranged Head Girls – he had), before she turned and started towards the door. She opened the door before she looked over at him, only seeing his back. He was still seated.

"Wouldn't stay 'round here too long," she called out to him. "Peeves is still out wandering."

And then Draco heard the soft thud of the door.

He sighed. The room was filled with shadows as he said the word aloud that quickly caused the light to slowly die. He was left alone in the darkness, and he closed his eyes for a brief moment before opening them again and staring at the distant wall in front of him. He remembered that many people were scared of darkness and haughtily smirked at the fact that he had conquered that fear long ago. For what _was_ the dark, really? People were just afraid of not seeing things.

He stayed there for a while, ignoring Granger's last say to him before she'd left. He sort of thought about the future – which was odd to tell people, really, because they would have been shocked to hear that _Draco Malfoy was thinking about the future_. It was a morbid future, though, which was what always got him. He even kind of felt vulnerable and small when he thought about it, only because these were things he could not control. Soon, Voldemort was going to find out. He wondered if ten years from now he'd still be thinking about this same thing, or he'd be buried in a miserable hole in the ground. He didn't mind thinking about that part; death was something that had never scared him. It was just the way he was going to go that scared him. Oh yes, a real manly fear. At least he wasn't afraid of the dark. _Potter_ was probably afraid of the dark. And Weasley – well, that went without saying.

Thinking about these things made the room around him feel different. Lonely. And Draco didn't really care about loneliness or any of that sentimental, Oh-pity-me rubbish because he'd made up his mind long ago that he didn't have time for any of that. Mostly his life had been shaded in with the in-betweens of Good and Bad, mostly Bad, but now there were those soft hues of Good rubbing in that made him feel a little bizarre sometimes. It sort of tingled between his fingers, or that place right in the middle of his face.

But sometimes when he felt that he got to thinking about stupid Granger, that psychopath that somehow got it inside her head that it was now she had to infiltrate his defense with ticking time bombs (that smelled like vanilla. Was that weird? A rhetorical question). He wondered where she fell into place, even though it was a vast waste of time, and he didn't even know why he went around thinking it – it was just one of those random thoughts that people thought sometimes when they were feeling crazy, like if fish could drown, that sort of thing. But every time he did think of her he felt like he'd gotten small air bubbles inside his lungs. Probably a curse or something. The Pure-blood Patrol was out to get him.

It was just that there was a reason he'd gotten into this in the first place. And it wasn't so people like her and Potter and Weasley could live happily with their kittens and puppies and… _hugs_. He was still trying to figure it out – _why_ he'd done what he did. It wasn't that because he felt obligated to do some good, either, because he was immune to that-that _crap_. But sometimes – at really _rare_ times – he wished someone like Hermione Granger, even though she was as batty as Madam Pince and could never deal with disorganization lest it _kill_ her, would just tell him what he needed to know. About this whole Good and Bad ordeal.

Draco Malfoy got out of that crazy room.

But as he stepped out into the hall, he froze as he heard a familiar feminine and soft laughter. There was a low voice; a low mumbling that accompanied the laugh.

Draco looked towards the end of the corridor.


	23. A Boy Named Hufflepuff

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: I don't own HP or Hogwarts, as they all belong to J.K. Rowling.

* * *

A big, sloppy, My-Pal-Shep, disgusting kiss for all my bee-u-ti-ful reviewers and readers.

Not to worry! Snogging will soon commence!

* * *

**A Boy Named Hufflepuff**

The look that instantly flashed on his face was a reflex. In the very spotlight of his mind he knew that he shouldn't gave a cat's nose about Granger's late night agenda – whatever freaky things crazy girls like her did in the dark – but, unknowingly, one silver brow twitched as he watched them. He had never been threatened by another person other than Potter and, on occasion, Weasley (though rarely, because it was a fact that Draco could totally whip his arse), so this was new. Though, he could swear that Granger lurked the halls looking for trouble. It was because she was friends with Potter and Weasley. They'd turned her into some hall-lurking criminal.

Her back was to him, but he recognized her frizzy brown tresses and slender stature underneath the heavy school robes. He indistinctly heard mumbles of their conversation, filled with chuckles and pleasure, and though he was a distance away from them, he knew she was quite taken with the conversation… or him. Draco shuddered to think. An exasperated look on his face, Draco began to grumble under his breath, making his way down to them in the hall.

Their voices and laughter became louder as he approached them, chiming and echoing in the empty passage. He began to secretly resent whoever this strange boy was that seemed to have no problem at all keeping her attention so pleasantly. Because, to Draco, that was a seemingly impossible task – at least, _she_ made it impossible. Damned girl always had some quip to hiss back to him. And then, nearing them, he couldn't help but let his mind linger upon that. Keeping her attention. Of course, not only that – but all of the other stupid messy tangents, like the fact that he was supposedly madly smitten over her. Which sort of made sense – even though every time he thought of it he instinctively bit his tongue – because upon closer inspection of Granger and her mystery boy he felt the beginning signs of his volatile temper. His eyes impulsively narrowed.

The boy, Draco noticed, was wearing a Hufflepuff Quidditch uniform consisting of tacky canary yellow fabric. This caused him to despise him more. It was no joke he hated the Hufflepuff House, most especially Hufflepuff twits who tried to steal the object of his affection – and frustration – away from him.

The boy looked up and acknowledged Draco's presence by simply nodding to him and Hermione turned around at the mention of him. Even in the darkness, he could see the way her eyes sparkled vibrantly and happily. He narrowed his eyes, his scowl deepening at the pair of them.

Draco mentally cursed. He knew that he shouldn't care even the least bit if the wanker had asked her out or not, and he tried, but his efforts proved to be useless. It was no use lying now, was it? Draco knew what he wanted, and he was as sure as hell not going to let some bumblebee-looking knobhead take it away from him.

He stood closely by her side. She was beaming excitedly and felt a bit nauseous trying to think about why she was looking so thrilled. He remembered he hated it when he would look across the room and catch a glimpse of the Happy Trio laughing together, as if they were on some advertisement on Witch Weekly or something equally dim-witted. What could he say? He hated seeing them happy. They were happy too _much_. Especially Granger. It even made him angry when he saw her snapping at Weasley again, or Potter, even when it was made very clear that she _wasn't_ happy in that moment at all. It didn't appear to matter. He just hated to see her involved with anyone. It took all he had to be able to say that. _He just hated to see her with anyone else_. Even if it was only strictly platonic. Seeing her with anyone who harbored testosterone and not pheromones was now considered a mortal enemy.

"Granger," he said, nodding to her. She smiled back at him yet it didn't calm the rabid beating inside his head. Draco calmly eyed the Hufflepuff, and a strange familiarity struck him. Disgustingly bright blue eyes, stupid sandy blond hair. He'd seen this bloke before. Of course, his team had played against Hufflepuff before (and won every time), but he had a feeling that that wasn't the only place he'd met the boy standing in front of him.

"And who are _you_ supposed to be?" Draco said coldly. He made sure that he knew he wasn't wanted. He was very good at that. He'd been _raised_ in such an atmosphere and he was pretty sure he could even make dear ol' Frosty cry if he was feeling up to it. Mincing up this boy to simply look like some washed-up halfwit would be no problem.

"Connor," the boy clad in the yellow Quidditch uniform informed him. He did not bother to offer a last name, as he only looked at Draco in mild curiosity.

Draco froze.

The prick of remembrance struck him like a bucket of ice-cold water.

He now knew where he'd met him before.

Why, he'd tried stealing Granger away from him before! Out in the snow, after they had been caught in the midst of that dreadful snow fight! Damned Connor had tried to woo Granger when she had interviewed him!

Draco's glower intensified on his face and Connor, disturbed by the impression Draco was keenly handing off to him, awkwardly shifted in his place.

"Malfoy!" Hermione then exclaimed, startling him. He tore his eyes away and settled them on her, whose face was radiant and glowing with enthusiasm. There was a crinkling sound as Draco managed to look down and see a piece of parchment in her hands.

"The hunt's _over_!" she said happily. "We've got a Quidditch Expert for the Harmonium!"

Draco looked at her, surprised. He almost did a double take. "_What?_"

"You heard me!" she said. She shoved the parchment in his hands as he looked down to see what it was. "Connor! He's going to be the Quidditch Expert!"

Draco's eyes froze on the piece he held in his hands, mid-sentence. He felt like gagging and laughing hysterically at the same time. "_What?"_ he said again, disbelievingly. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. A _Hufflepuff?_ _Connor? _What kind of name was_ Connor, _anyway? It sounded like some Belgium curse word!

"He's _perfect_, Malfoy!" Hermione said, which made Draco remember that she had said that last time, and had been wrong. Very, very wrong. It almost caused a flaring, sour and unpleasant feeling in his stomach, watching her rave on about some stupid and Quidditch-disabled boy like he was something special. Granger could be really stupid sometimes. Really. It hurt to say it but it was true. "He's got fantastically _superb_ marks in all his classes, and he's also the seeker for the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, and so he actually knows what he's talking about—"

"Wait, Granger," Draco said, cutting her off, because he _really_ begged to differ. All that she had just told him – _phhffft_. Out the window and flown down to Siberia. Useless rubbish that wasn't even _true_. So far from true, in fact. It was in _Siberia_, remember? And who did she think she was, anyhow, saying all of these disgustingly nice things about this boy she _didn't even know_? This angered him so much that he even felt like taking out one of those Detention slips and sticking it right onto her forehead and deducting an atrocious amount of House points just for saying such frivolous things.

Hermione stopped, her eyes searching him, nonplussed.

Draco's eyes flickered to Connor, who was watching them curiously. He sent him a glare before getting back to Hermione. "You're _supposed_ to be consulting me before you make any decisions, remember? I'm _Head Boy_," he told her, as if she'd somehow forgotten and was met with a hawk-eyed look as she placed her hands on her hips. "And, besides, I don't _care_ if he has experience. He's _terrible_. Have you seen him play? My dead _grandmother_ could catch the Snitch faster than him!"

"Malfoy," she sighed. "For _heaven's_ sake."

She was getting tired of this. Honestly, his pickiness was driving her insane. So what if the other boy she had said was perfect turned out anything but! But Connor was, for certain! She was getting awfully irritated with his "He's-not-good-enough" attitude. Truthfully, she didn't care anymore. She just needed a Quidditch Expert. And maybe Draco bloody Malfoy couldn't see how much sweat, blood, and tears she'd poured out over this whole issue – but she was _not_ going to let him do this to her. _No_. He was already making this ten times harder than it should be by being so arrogant and by acting like a prat and she was reaching the end of her temper. In fact, she really wanted to punch him right now.

Before she succumbed into that girly emotional train wreck she slowly felt herself reducing to. Did he _want_ to make her cry out of stress and frustration in front of Connor? Did he _want_ to have her fist shoved up against his face?

"I don't agree with your poor choice," he said coldly, trying to give the parchment back to Connor, while Hermione was still trying to deal with her conflicting feelings of trying to decide between yelling at him, crying _and_ yelling at him, or punching him _and_ crying _and_ yelling. Connor only looked at it, startled and puzzled, staring at Draco's pale hand that was holding it out to him.

"Take it," he commanded.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Hermione asked him, blinking.

"I'm giving it back to him, Granger," he said to her. "Well? Are you going to take it or _not_?" he barked at Connor. "It's either you _take_ it, or I_ burn _it. Which will it be, Hufflepuff?"

Connor looked at Hermione, who abruptly snatched the parchment from Draco's hand, almost giving him a paper cut.

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. "If you wanted to burn it yourself, Granger, all you had to do was ask."

Hermione scowled at him, the parchment shaking in her hand. "His _name_," she seethed, "is _Connor_. Not _Hufflepuff_. Get it _right_, you ignorant twit."

_Oh_, she was _sticking up_ for him now, too.

Draco scowled at her. "What makes you think I honestly _give_ a damn what his name is? And-and what is _this_, Granger? Just picking up random applications from hall-lurkers? I think it'd be better if you'd just left this up to me. Your method of going about things is futile."

"Futile?" scoffed Hermione. "I think the only person here who is making any of this _futile_ is you, Malfoy."

"Oh, real witty," he said. "In fact, you sure like to talk tough for a girl who knows _nothing_ about Quidditch, don't you, Granger?" he snapped. "Now, just _give_ me the bloody parchment." And before Hermione could be aware of his intentions, he had already snatched the parchment back.

"_What_ is your _problem_?" Hermione asked furiously. "Is there some medication you've been forgetting to take, Malfoy – because, really, you've got to help me out here. Why do you insist on making everything so difficult –"

"Interesting question, Granger, and would make for an invigorating discussion, but I'm not in the mood." He held the parchment out to Connor, who didn't budge. "Well? I'm sorry, but your services have been declined. Oh, and next time, try to actually _catch_ the Snitch?"

Connor took it back hastily after that comment, viciously glaring at Draco. Draco gladly reciprocated such a look. Connor then turned around and headed down the hallway, at which then Hermione twisted him around to face her. Once he did, however, she did not release her grip, which he was widely aware of. Her fingers curled securely around his arm and he could feel her slender fingers through the material of his shirt.

"Give me _one_ good reason why he can't take the spot," she said in a low and threatening voice.

Draco tauntingly smirked at her.

"Well, that's easy, Granger," he responded.

"All right then. And why is that?"

"Because the spot's already taken."

Hermione's brows shot up, both startled and curious at the same time. She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "Oh? And by _who_?"

"Certainly not by Hufflepuff over there," he scoffed, nodding to the direction he had left.

Hermione's eyes thinned into tiny slits. Her grip tightened. "Don't toy with me, Malfoy," she warned him. "_Who_ took the bloody position?"

"Me. The position as the Quidditch Expert on the Hogwarts Harmonium is _taken_ by _me_."

Hermione's eyes widened for a split second, out of shock.

"You _must_ be joking," she scoffed.

"Don't look so surprised, Granger. I was the _first_ one you offered it to, if you remember clearly. It only took me quite a while to decide. And now, I have." He gave her a smug, superior look. "I accept the offer. The position is no longer available."

oooo

"So, Hermione," Ron said, his eyes squinting at her from uncertainty and confusion. She could already see a hint of anger budding in his blue eyes. "Tell me _again_ how rat-bastard Malfoy got the job as the Quidditch Expert? _My_ job?"

She would have preferred to have this conversation alone, without any spectators, but Ron wouldn't hear it. Unfortunately, it had somehow gotten out that Malfoy had gotten the job before she could have had the chance to try and break it gently to Ron. So he insisted on having this conversation in front of both Harry and Ginny, who were looking at her with intent gazes, waiting to know her answer.

Hermione gave them a solemn look, obviously not pleased with it and herself, either. "I told you, Ron," she said to him quite pathetically and feeling weary.

"No, you didn't, Hermione," he snipped, annoyed. "You simply said, 'He took the job.' That wasn't and _isn't_ an explanation. Maybe for cavemen, but not for _us_. I happen to believe there's a chain of events that lead up to a certain mistake. And I _also_ happen to believe that you have it, but you just don't want to tell us."

Hermione scowled at him. "It's complicated," she sighed. Because it really was. She reckoned that if they truly knew what was going on in her life right now, what with everything and then the swelling monstrosity that was Malfoy (who she should have known from the _start_ was going to _really_ aim to mess her up) they would not be so unsympathetic right now. They would instead be patting her on the back and telling her that everything was going to be just fine – and that Malfoy was human, too, so someday he was going to die and they would be free of him forever.

"Which gives you more reason to explain, so enlighten us, Hermione."

Finally, Hermione gave in. She thought she might as well, as they were bound to go through this later, anyway. She figured that since Ron was still not allowed out of the hospital wing he couldn't do much damage. Now, she only needed to figure out how she could try to convince Draco not to enter the infirmary under any circumstances unless he wanted the bloody pulp beaten out of him by a very angry redhead. Although she did consider the notion of instead doing the exact opposite: coaxing him to enter the infirmary with some fake plan and leaving him there while Ron sort of murdered him. It entertained her and, she had to admit, suited her grudge against Malfoy. He was making her life _so hard_. Be it unnatural for her to imagine such unfortunate and gory misfortunes on an actual person, it was strangely easy because of the new influx of slurring blends of longing and hate, anger and desire coming her way. It was like her emotions were suffering from split-personality disorder.

"I offered it to him," she honestly said. She tried to say this with bravado while bracing herself at the same time, hoping it didn't sound as pathetic as it had in her head. She hadn't practiced this at all although she now knew she should have. And she would have, if she were _smart_.

Ron groaned aloud in agony. "And why would you _do_ such a thing?"

Hermione felt like she was trying to defend a person responsible for so many wrongs that there wasn't even enough to say about it, but it was her bum on the line too, not just Malfoy's. Stupid prick had brought her down with him.

"Because he _knows_ Quidditch, Ron! He's got the second highest scores in the entire school, and yes, he is a slimy git, but he's also one of the most skilled and notorious Quidditch players in Hogwarts," she reasoned.

Ron shook his head. "_Many_ people know Quidditch, Hermione! Not just Malfoy!"

"Yes, but not many of them know how to write, now, do they?"

"There's _Harry_!" he exclaimed, pointing at him. "You could've asked _him_! He's _better_ than Malfoy, _and_ he could write! You said so yourself!"

"Don't be difficult, Ron," she said, bothered. "I asked Harry once before. He refused. I _don't_ ask again."

"But I would've _taken_ it, Hermione," Harry told her firmly, obviously just as disturbed with the news as Ron was. Hermione turned and glared at him, knowing in the back of her mind that he was lying. "Honestly," he insisted. "I would have had _no_ problem taking over Ron's job at the Harmonium."

"Harry, stop it," she said sternly.

Ron scowled at her. "That was _my_ job, Hermione, _my_ job! _Not_ yours, _not_ anyone else's, _mine_! I am _supposed_ to give you my approval for whoever takes my bloody job! And I sure as hell don't and will not_ ever_ approve Malfoy! Don't you understand what he's going to go try to do? To you, to me, to the _newspaper_?"

"He's _Head Boy_, Ron!"

"I wouldn't care if he was Jesus Christ! He's _still_ Malfoy! _Death Eater_ Malfoy, remember?"

"He isn't a Death Eater," she informed him sternly.

He was incredulous. "And just how would you know that, Hermione?"

"I've _seen_ his arm! There isn't anything _there_!" she blurted.

Another clever glib from traitor Hermione. Might as well start making shirts that said _Hopelessly Smitten with A Slytherin Bastard_, or something. Or mugs. Or caps. Or socks. Although socks were a little more discreet, which was totally off the point.

Harry raised a raven brow at this, concerned and surprised. He reminded himself not to jump to any conclusions, but it was no lie that after her little exclamation there was something heavy and obscure clustering up in his throat.

"It might be _invisible_! It might not be on his arm, after all! Who knows where they put it nowadays? For all _we_ know, it could be down in his—"

"Ron, _please!"_ Ginny interrupted.

Harry nodded along with her plead.

"Look, Ron," Hermione firmly told him. "I'm still the editor, and I still have a say on what he can write and what he can't." Hermione felt horrendously bad for lying to them about that certain subject, but it was half the truth, wasn't it? She _was_ still the editor. A co-editor, anyway. With Malfoy. But now wasn't the time to explain that either. She knew Ron wouldn't hesitate to start pointing his finger at her and saying that she was "fraternizing with the enemy," and demand that she step down or something of the sort.

Though it wasn't as if she'd do what he'd tell her, Ron could be a horrendously annoying stubborn arse when he wanted to be. She knew she'd certainly get very angry and start to seriously contemplate the possibility of giving him another reason to be the in hospital wing. And, not to mention, Harry was here. She hadn't made the effort to tell him about being a co-editor with Malfoy, either. She knew telling them that now would just make things even worse.

But see, here was the thing: Malfoy being the Quidditch Expert and therefore taking over Ron's job while his absence, they were bound to find out when the next issue was distributed. Malfoy and her being co-editors – it would take a bit of time to find out. No one really reads the fine print on the end of the Harmonium, and she knew Ron wasn't that much of a reader to notice it.

"He won't try to sabotage me, or you, or the newspaper, all right? I assure you that. Keep in mind that we had to work together to launch this whole thing. He wouldn't dare try to ruin it. I _won't_ let him."

For real.

She had put way too much work into it to let that bumpkin mess it all up.

This reassured Ron only the teensiest bit. "I don't approve Malfoy," he told her again. "I _don't,_ and I _won't_. I want you to find a new one."

Hermione scoffed. "There's _nothing_ I can do about that. We looked, Ron. We had interviews. Malfoy had refused at first, but then he accepted. I like to think it was a lucky motion that he did so. For the newspaper, of course."

Hermione had twisted the truth a little, but she knew it would make no difference. No, she did not really think it was a lucky motion he took the job because she knew – though the reason he accepted was still unclear – that his intentions were not pure at all. If she knew Malfoy, and she did, very well, she knew that he was hiding something up his sleeve. And yes, he did write better and knew more about the tactics and skills about Quidditch more than Connor did (obviously), but she wouldn't have been feeling so down and blue if he had let his choice of rejecting her offer remain steady. Connor had been right there, and she could've and would've given him the job without hesitating.

In fact, now that she thought about it, Draco accepting the job presented a whole new lot of possibilities and suspicions. Why _had_ he taken the job after just rejecting it? What had made him change his mind? Did he really despise Hufflepuffs as much as to take the job that he thought was degrading and ridiculous? Or was it something else?

Did it involve _her_?

At this, Hermione blanched.

Ron's eyes narrowed in suspicion, as did Harry's.

Harry was beginning to see a connection, and he didn't like it the slightest bit. He prayed he was wrong. And before Ron could open his mouth, Harry had already asked the question they were all dying to know, even Ginny, who was now looking at Hermione with the same expression.

"What made him change his mind?" Harry asked Hermione, echoing one of the questions wildly pulsing in her mind. Ginny eagerly nodded, also wanting to know.

Hermione was a little surprised from their question and hoped that she hadn't been wondering out loud. "What?" she asked, baffled.

"He said," Ron cut in, "what made Malfoy change his mind?"

Hermione's heart started to race, and her mouth suddenly became dry and hot.

"Well, how am I supposed to know?" she snapped, trying to look as calm and casual as possible while feeling a twinge of guilt and uneasiness. She knew, she did, but she wasn't sure. There was very little she was sure about these days. "I can't read minds."

"Well, what happened?" Harry asked her in a serious tone.

Hermione only spared a glance his way, wringing her hands and sitting down. "I gave the job to Connor, the Hufflepuff Seeker, but Malfoy didn't approve." Ron snorted at this, obviously knowing why just from the word "Hufflepuff." "And the reason why, he told me, was because the position was no longer available because _he_ had already taken it."

Ginny secretly smiled while Ron and Harry just looked at her with dark eyes, just as guarded and wary as ever. _She_ knew, at least. She knew Ron wouldn't have gotten it if it had landed on his face, but she wasn't so sure about Harry.

"That git," said Ron, shaking his head.

"Well, Ron, you weren't so sorry about giving your job away," Hermione didn't fail to remind him with a scowl, "and so I didn't expect that the person who took your job had to have _your_ approval."

Ron said nothing, glowering at her.

"Well, you're editor, aren't you?" asked Harry. "You can fire him. You know, give him the boot. Sack him."

"You make it sound as if it's the easiest thing in the world, Harry," she sighed.

"You're _Hermione Granger_," Ron cut in, just as Harry was about to open his mouth. "The infamous Gryffindor bossy-boots and miniature Professor McGonagall. _Everything's_ easy for you. Except Quidditch, of course, but firing someone, I predict – especially someone like arsehole Malfoy – will give you an exhilarating feeling and you'll soon realize you rather like it."

Hermione responded to his comment by a spiteful glare. "You're forgetting something terribly important: that the person you're telling me to _fire_ is _Malfoy_, who is also the Head Boy. If I just _sack_ him without a good reason at hand, he'll not hesitate to report me to Dumbledore, saying that I had bestowed unfair justice upon him. Things just don't work the way you want it to, Ron," she told him, still glaring. "You can't make me fire him at my own expense."

"Dumbledore will understand," Ron insisted. "He will. It's _my_ job, Hermione. Dumbledore will understand that I don't want him to take my job, and _why_ I don't want him to take my job."

Hermione shook her head, feeling an ache in her head start to form. She made up her mind that it was best to leave and close – though improper and unmannerly – this conversation. She could not stand any more of Ron's ill-intentioned words and Harry's disappointed and angry looks. Why was it that all of the men in her life were causing her all of these problems? Really?

"Well, I'm beat," she said, standing up. "I'm going to go and get some rest. I've got some exams to study for and I have to go visit the library to check if the _Transfiguration Advanced: Third Edition_ is in. I'll see you at lunch."

Hermione didn't bother to give them any reassurance of any positive outcome of their argument before she made her way to the doors.

"Hermione, you _are_ going to fire him, aren't you?" she heard Harry call out to her.

She chose not to answer him, simply heading out without another word.

oooo

Determined to know just what Draco's little stunt was about that night and exactly what his intentions were, she found herself standing before his door. Mustering up all the nerve and irritation that she had obtained during the not-so-pleasant visit in the hospital wing, she raised her hand, closed tightly in a fist, and loudly rapped her knuckles against the hardwood of his door. She waited for a second, during which she expected to hear rustling and footsteps approach the door, but only silence greeted her. Hermione scowled and knocked again.

"Malfoy," she said aloud, bothered. "Malfoy, open the door. I have to speak to you. Malfoy!"

That was when the door opened, revealing a calm but stone-faced Draco Malfoy. Draco was in his usual dark T-shirt and just as dark trousers, making him looking even paler than he usually was, in comparison. Hermione sucked in a breath, trying to calm down the rapid rhythm of her heart while trying to compose all her thoughts. She lowered her hands to her sides, her fists closing and opening – another nervous habit of hers. She swallowed hard to hydrate her mouth.

"Granger," he said coolly. "Come back to further elaborate on how much of a highbrow cad I am? Or have you finally come to your senses that I really am better than you?"

She ignored him. "I demand to know why you accepted the position," she said sternly. Her eyes flickered dimly, and Draco knew that this was no joke. He was curious as to why she was speaking as if this was a grave and serious matter. From the way her eyes were aflame and dark, and the fact that her face was drawn down so tightly, made Draco slightly intrigued at what he had done wrong this time. She amazed him, really – always coming up with more things that were supposedly _his _entire fault.

"Is this a joke, Granger?" he drawled, as if bored. "Is this one of those Muggle jokes that nobody ever gets?"

"_No_, Malfoy, it isn't," she said firmly. "I want to know why you had refused the position when I first asked you, and then, all of a sudden_, accepted_ it out of the blue when I had informed you of Connor. I _demand_ an answer. Was it really about Connor? Do you really despise Hufflepuffs as much as to take the job you thought was 'degrading' and 'moronic' to prevent letting a member of the Hufflepuff House take it? Or is it something else? Why did you change your mind, Malfoy?"

"What exactly are you suggesting?" he asked her curiously, quite in awe of that fact that she might actually be on the right track. The only question was: should he lead her right to it? Or should he materialize up some lies and steer her off the road of truth?

Draco was not quite so sure.

"I'm not suggesting anything," she informed him angrily. "I _asked_ a question, and I just want an _answer_. Is that simple enough for you?"

"Well, first of all, Granger," he said, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe, "Hufflepuff was terrible. There's no way in hell I'd let a second-rate Quidditch player take that position on the Harmonium."

Hermione's brows shot up. "Is that it, Malfoy?" she asked him, though her tone was not at all believing to his answer. "Is that really it? That's all you're going to give me? Nothing convincing?"

Draco scowled at her. "I'd like to _inform_ you that you have no right to just march up to my door and start interrogating me like I'm some bloody criminal. You also have no right to throw my answers back at me _just_ because you think I am being dishonest. You're clever, Granger. Figure it out yourself. Why _did_ I take the job after I refused it? I don't know why you chose to bother me with the hassle when you already know the answer yourself."

Hermione glowered at him, her eyes darkening like the gather before a storm. "I don't know what you're talking about, Malfoy," she fumed. "The only true reason involved with you turning down and then accepting the position is this: that you are a despicable, foul, _stupid_ bastard with an over-inflated head as well as an over-inflated ego."

Draco pretended to flinch. "Oh, ouch, Granger," he drawled sarcastically. "That struck me _right_ in the gut. Excuse me while I head inside, slam the door in your face, and work on being righteous and sickeningly noble just like you and Saint Potter."

"Don't toy with me, Malfoy," she seethed. "I've had enough of your debauchery and games, all right? Ron and Harry are _tailing_ my arse, questioning my judgment and trying to scold some of that bloody sense I absolutely didn't have when I offered you the job. They want me to _fire_ you, do you understand that?"

Draco smirked at her, tease flittering across his lips. "The question is, Granger, do _you_ want to fire me?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," she responded. "I have every reason to."

He snorted. "This only proves just how codependent you are, Granger. You don't want to fire me. You know I'm perfect for the job, you said so yourself. You asked me _first_. You _only_ want to fire me to please your knobhead friends: Potter and Potter's Shadow. Why do you have to do everything they tell you to? Don't let their lack of brain cells impair your sense of judgment."

She scowled at him.

"Besides, you _can't_ fire me, Granger," he told her, confirming her fears. "I'm Head Boy, and I did nothing to break the rules."

"_Nothing_?" she scoffed. "_Seven years_ of relentless torment and undeserving insults is _nothing_? What are you on, Malfoy?"

Draco shrugged. "Why dwell on the past?" he said. "You're wasting your time, I hope you know. Nothing you say or do will get me to step down for the sake of your git-faced friends."

Hermione knew he was right. She knew she was going to go utterly insane before she even got him to sway a bit. She knew this was useless, talking to an immovable, annoyingly stubborn boulder like Draco. She made a decision to let Ron beat him to pulp instead, considering all the trouble and wasted time (Draco was right) she had to go through. For once in Hermione Granger's life, she came out empty-handed.

She let out a tight sigh.

"I suggest you don't go into the infirmary," she told him, still quite angry. She didn't even know why she was warning him – she should be practically _pushing_ him into the hospital wing, for Merlin's sake!

As much as she was angry with him right at the moment, the last thing she wanted was a beaten and battered Head Boy. She didn't want Ron to inflict too much pain on him, though if she knew that if she told him that, it would be ignored and pushed away before she could even insist. If Ron was determined on hurting a certain individual, such as Draco Malfoy (who was his usual target, unsurprisingly), it was no shock if he got his way. Hermione knew that if Harry was just as annoyed as Ron, he'd let Ron slip from his hands whilst holding him back, let him beat down Draco, and then act as if it was an accident that Ron had gotten away.

What could she say? They were a team.

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Unless you want to keep your head, you'll not take the risk to find out."

oooo

Dumbledore had requested for the Heads inside his office the next evening.

As Hermione waited stiffly in a leather armchair for the headmaster to make his appearance, with Draco beside her in another armchair quite similar to the one she occupied, she contemplated about the awkward walk here. All right, it hadn't been too awkward, because she'd sneezed once and then he had launched off into this extravagant yet rather irritating spiel about how she was spreading her germs all over the place – even though she had covered her mouth when she'd sneezed. He acted as if she had some sort of highly dangerous disease, and, well, considering his naivety he probably thought so. Though, it seemed like he had just said that just to say something.

Then, Hermione straightened up in her chair as Dumbledore walked in, taking the seat behind his desk.

"Terribly sorry about the delay," he said, smiling at the pair of them. "I had a bit of business to take care of, but that's all done with. I do hope the both of you haven't been waiting too long."

Hermione shook her head. "No, Headmaster, of course not," she replied.

"Very well then," Dumbledore said. "Would the two of you like any tea?" Both declined. "All right then," he said, folding his hands on his desk. "Onto other matters. There is a reason I invited the both of you in my office. I do recognize how hard the both of you have been working to maintain the ongoing success of the Hogwarts Harmonium, and I am absolutely pleased. I knew you two would be the perfect team to accomplish such a task, and I do realize that you do not get enough rewards for your labor."

"Oh, Headmaster, that isn't necessary—" Hermione started to say before she hesitantly shut her mouth as Dumbledore raised his hand as a signal for her to stop.

"I insist, Miss Granger," he smiled. "There is a Talent Showcase that is to be taking place here at Hogwarts, in a special hidden room only reserved for special events that only the professors, Founders, and I myself know about. I am inviting you two to come, and you must," he said happily, his blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. "However, it will be strictly confidential and no one else must know about it."

Hermione was stunned. "Headmaster, really, it isn't—"

"There's a new musician making her debut," he said, continuing on, making Hermione shut her mouth, yet again. "By the name of Emily Vanderborough. She's quite a hit amongst the folk in Scotland and Ireland, as she had originally come from a wizarding affiliate school of ours in Edinburgh. I hear she's remarkably stunning. There are rumors that the songs of hers are able to melt even the coldest of hearts."

Dumbledore then silently observed them as Draco suddenly noticed the suspicious twinkle in his eye.

What? Was he supposed to catch the insinuation here?

"It's a once in a lifetime opportunity. Oh, and did I mention she is Professor McGongall's niece? I hear only the nicest things about the dear girl."

Hermione, still quite in shock, only stared at him.

Draco was still his calm, cool self. He'd already met some of the most famous people in the wizarding world from his father's balls at the manor — this was no difference. However, there was something about their Headmaster that struck him as rather odd.

"I expect the both of you to go," he said. "Oh, and if you'd like, you can bring dates." His grin became wider, making it obvious that he was ecstatic about the idea. "Although it'd be such a splendid idea if the two of you went together."

Hermione gaped at him, looking as if she had just choked on something, while Draco only raised an eyebrow in mild surprise and curiosity.

"So? How about it? It'd be fantastic to show how our two rival houses are getting along so well. It'd only help the school."

Draco wanted to laugh. Why, the old kook was _actually_ trying to match them up! He never thought he'd live to see the day.

"No," Hermione managed to choke out, before Draco could make his remark. "I'm sorry, Headmaster," she said, embarrassed. "I'm afraid that won't be possible. I'm sure both Malfoy and I can find dates. Thanks anyway."

Draco scowled, and Dumbledore's smile faded only the slightest bit. Why? Was he not good enough for her? Not that Draco actually wanted to be her date (he could find much better dates without a flaring temper and such a smart mouth), but why couldn't it be an open option?

Of course he was good enough for her. He was _better_ than her. She was just threatened, that was all. Threatened by a higher, more sophisticated type of the human species. Because that was what Draco was.

_Better_.

"Very well then, Miss Granger," he said. "I shall leave it up to the both of you." He looked at Draco and gave him a knowing look.

This annoyed Draco even more.

"I recommend for the pair of you to take the opportunity of the trip to Hogsmeade this week to head on over to Diagon Alley to get some new robes. I have already alerted the professors that your destination will differ from the other students, so they will not stop you on your way from suspicion. However, I will give you a piece of parchment to carry along with you just in case. It shall be a very, very formal event and you shall even see some of the most renowned wizards and witches attending. I will be owling you of the necessary information such as when and exactly where shortly. Remember that this event is strictly a secret, and not a word about it can appear in the Harmonium. Your dates should also be sworn to secrecy and well-trusted." Dumbledore nodded at the both of them. "You are dismissed."

Still quite in a daze and her mind in a muddle of what exactly Dumbledore had tried to do with her and Draco, she sat there, stiffly and rather perplexed beyond anything else, as Draco quietly stood and made his way out of the headmaster's office. She wasn't aware of the look Draco shot her when he passed, but Dumbledore, being wise and very attentive despite his elderly age, caught it. A sly smile crept across his face.

Just about seconds after Draco had left the room, she shook away all the fumbling confusion in her mind and managed to compose herself. She felt her face heat up as she realized she must've looked like a fool just continuing to sit there after he had given them his word of dismissal. But Dumbledore, as if reading her mind, gave her a reassuring smile. He nodded at her as Hermione silently got up and gave him an embarrassed smile as she thanked him.

"Thank you, Headmaster," she said mannerly, though inside she was scolding herself for her stupidity to let herself get swept away so easily in her bafflement and confusion. She had just thought, for a second there, that Professor Dumbledore had been actually trying to… _match_ them up. But the idea alone was completely ludicrous. She knew that he had much more important things to do than play some silly matchmaking game between her and her loathed partner.

And, besides – he _knew_. Her and Malfoy… they'd _kill_ each other.

"You're certainly most welcome, Miss Granger," he said back. "I admire your modesty and humbleness, but sometimes you must take credit for your rewards."

Hermione laughed nervously. She straightened out her robes and turned to start towards the door. But as she was just about two steps away from the door, a voice stopped her. She turned around slowly.

"Miss Granger," he said in his somewhat quiet and aged voice. His eyes had toned down in its merry twinkles. "I do hope things are going well with Mister Malfoy. I can see very well that he is trying. I just hope that when the time comes when he needs you, you will not reject him because of your past and differences, or maybe even, perhaps, fear. Fear is inevitable, that is a fact indeed, but while it is unavoidable, there are numerous ways to overcome it."

Hermione stared at him blankly for a moment, feeling as if she was standing all alone in a dark room with nothing but a voice mumbling incoherently to guide her out. She did not understand these things that were happening to her at all. She knew that their headmaster meant well, but… she knew nothing else of what he meant by his statement. She had a clue, yes, but she was horrified at the possibility of being right, for the first time of her life.

She cleared her throat, finding her throat remarkably dry.

"Um," she said, still bewildered out of her mind, but she thought to herself that later would be a better time to deal with it — when she was feeling better and her mind had gotten some peace and tranquility, which it needed to be able to function securely. Right now, her mind was swimming in the sea that was this confusing labyrinth. "Thank you. And, um, I'll be sure to… do just that. Not reject him when he needs me… for assistance. Of course. Right. Goodbye."

And Hermione walked out, knowing for sure now, that she was surrounded by complete lunatics.


	24. Utter and Complete Senselessness

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: I am choosing not to be a liar and telling you the truth: No, this is not J.K. Rowling so I do not own Harry Potter. Now, since all that's been straightened out…

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**Edited!**

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**Utter and Complete Senselessness**

Draco Malfoy was sore with her.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out. She'd observed him ever since he'd started showing strange behavioral patterns and he certainly regarded her much more coldly now and the Mudblood jokes were more than the usual he threw her way. She'd wanted to ask him – yell at him, more like – but she could never find the right time, which she thought was ridiculous. They spent at least an hour or two (or maybe even three at desperate times) in the common room, improvising the layout and proofreading pieces and that was enough time for anyone, especially her, to muster up the nerve to ask him just what in the bleeding hell his problem was. But every time she saw him seated a safe distance to her and even a bit farther than usual, she wanted to shake away the urge. It was as if he had a sign around his neck, HERMIONE GRANGER, STAY AWAY in menacing block letters and that if she were to cross over he would bite off her arm like one of those wild hyenas she'd watched in the Discovery Channel.

And so, for it was only logical, they kept to themselves. But the thing was: the ticking and silent time that filled their meetings annoyed her more than the sensible amount. She was itching to talk to him. The distance between them disconcerted her though she tried her absolute hardest not to care. She had played it off quite convincingly in the beginning, but then began to falter. She was not as strong when it came to him than she had thought, and it upset her greatly.

Hermione wasn't dense; she knew it had something to do with the Talent Showcase. Or the fact that she had objected to the "both of them being each other's dates" too easily. But it struck her rather odd that he would be peeved at her simply because of that. He didn't want to go with her… did he?

Hermione shook her head, trying to get that squirming feeling in her abdomen to subside. '_No, of course not. The last thing he'd ever want to do is be seen with me. He's bloody Draco Malfoy, for Merlin's sake. His requirements are far too shallow and petty for someone like me. The stupid arsehole.'_

However, though the answer was quite clear in her head, it was only the answer that she wanted to be true… partly, anyway. It was the logical answer that she forced into her head. The "No, he wouldn't want to ever go with a dirty-blooded being like me anywhere," was getting quite thin and she only repeated it to herself over and over so that she could be chained yet again to reality. There was that insufferable hope stirring inside her that she might be wrong, but she pushed it aside and tried her best to make it nonexistent.

Useless thoughts like those of blokes and love were incredibly stupid, and not to mention a big waste of time. Time of which she could be using to find a date for the Talent Showcase. And speaking of the Talent Show and dates – no, she hadn't succeeded in finding a bloke to take as she hadn't even taken the chance to ask anyone. Her mind was quite crowded and cluttered with the whole Draco business that she had sworn to herself she wouldn't even think about.

She didn't know if he had found a date yet, and fortunately she hadn't seen him hanging around some pretty Ravenclaw or Slytherin in the corridors or anywhere else around the castle. If she had to guess, he would be going alone, and she hoped she was right. She didn't know what she'd do if he'd brought along some horrendously beautiful date. Jealousy, she had realized long before, was not her friend in any way at all. She didn't know what she'd do if she saw him with another girl. Perhaps poison her drink, or something. Or kill him. Either one.

Though she knew that most of the girls in Hogwarts would leap at the chance to be his date for a night (or even just a few minutes), he had never seemed to be interested in any of the girls in Hogwarts since fifth year. That fact was rather odd – but rather not at the same time. After all, Draco was one of the most sought-out blokes in the school for his irresistible bad boy reputation, godly looks, wealth, and power. He was quite a catch, to think of it. That is, if one managed to overlook his defiant attitude and his quick, boorish wit. Not to mention his ever-present snide comments. But the thing was, his standards were set far too high. He seemed to be looking for a perfect girl with pure blood, intellect, and good looks to match for show. She cynically wondered where he would find such a girl.

'_Probably at one of those fancy-shmancy balls they hold at their manor that I keep hearing about,'_ she thought to herself almost bitterly.

Hermione sat down on her bed, slipping off her black Mary Jane's and wriggling her toes inside her socks. She sighed.

The Hogsmeade trip was tomorrow and Dumbledore had informed her and Draco that they were to take it as an opportunity to head on over to Diagon Alley to get their new robes. After all, it was Dumbledore who assigned the dates for the trip, and she knew that he had done so that she and Draco might get their formal robes for the show.

The Talent Showcase was a mere three days away, according to the letter Dumbledore had owled them the night before. She needed to find a date, and fast. She considered taking Harry, but she remembered that he had Quidditch practice that evening. And as far as she knew, Ron wasn't allowed out of the hospital wing yet, though even if he were, he would be her very last resort. If she took him, she knew that at the sight of Draco he would lose his mind and start to attempt to bloody him up.

So.

That was a definite no on Ron. But there was one very nice boy, however, that she was considering seriously…. The one bloke that had shown interest towards her so far this year.

Connor. The Hufflepuff Seeker.

He was a serious candidate. He'd slightly romanced her, treated her kindly and seemed to fancy her for her. Not because of anything else. Just her. No sugarcoating whatsoever. No breast enhancements, no make-up, no short skirts, no unbuttoned shirts that were supposed to highlight cleavages. And that _had_ to count for something, right?

She collapsed on her back, sighing. She looked up on the canopy of her bed, feeling a weird fluttering in her stomach as she thought further on the idea.

He was a good-looking bloke. He was smart and charming. So what if he wasn't exactly the most exceptional Quidditch player? She needn't worry about what Draco thought of him. _She_ was planning to ask Connor out, not him. Though, she knew that if she took him as her date, Draco would be furious. But somehow, that mere fact just added to its appeal.

Hermione's face turned contemplative for a minute.

She decided she would ask Connor. What was the worst that could happen? If she did get turned down, then she'd go alone. No problem. Dumbledore didn't say bringing a date was a requirement.

Now, the only problem was what she was going to wear to the special event. She could wear her formal robes she wore to the Yule Ball back during fourth year, but she knew far too well that she had long outgrown them. She also assumed that the Showcase would be much fancier than the ball. She had to go out and look for some new robes. She hoped she wouldn't be spending a horrendous amount of money for robes that she was only going to wear for one night.

Hermione closed her eyes.

She knew it was going to be some hard work. She'd never really been keen on shopping since she wasn't nearly as materialistic as the other girls her age, so she did not really know the basics of it all. She needed an expert to escort her throughout her search so that she would not make a mistake and a bad purchase. Or worse: be taken advantage of and getting _tricked_ into making a bad purchase.

She sat up and got to her feet, knowing just whom the perfect expert shopper was to help and guide her.

oooo

Ginny met her in Diagon Alley with Professor McGonagall's permission outside of Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occassions. Her fiery-haired friend greeted her with a bright smile, obviously excited for the day to come. They went along inside, their eyes taking in all the multi-colored robes differing in material all the way from cotton to silk. The young girls and women already in the store glanced up at them with a curious expression before nonchalantly continuing on to their business.

Hermione sighed, feeling a bit overwhelmed. She hadn't been here since the beginning of the year when she had to buy some new robes for Hogwarts because she had grown out of her robes from last year.

'_But that had been easy,' _she spoke to herself, mentally. '_Those were merely school robes. I knew exactly what they looked like, how much they cost. I knew what I was doing. Can't say I feel the same way about today.'_

Ginny glanced at her friend and grinned. "Scared, Hermione?"

"No, of course not," she said. "Just a bit overwhelmed. And just awfully glad I invited you along."

Ginny laughed. "Yeah, I bet." She tugged on Hermione's arm. "Now, let's go. We won't accomplish anything if we just stand here. Come on."

Hermione followed behind her.

They started from the start of the store, looking through each and every robe on the racks.

"Do you have a color in mind?" asked Ginny. She held up a lavender satin robe. Hermione made a face as she shook her head, and Ginny put it back on the rack and moved on.

"No, I'm not very specific. Dark colors would be nice, though."

Ginny nodded as she looked up at her.

"Dark colors go well with your complexion." Which Hermione did not even know anything about. She had no idea robes could ever "go well" with skin type, or anything else for the matter, besides hand purses, shoes, and accessories. But Hermione shrugged it off and tried to relax the squirming in her stomach by thinking of how it would be to be done with this sort of hassle, graduate and finally step into the world without any chains or restrictions. Or any forbidden lines that she wasn't allowed to cross.

They went along to the racks with dark robes, which was fairly easy. The racks were organized by colors and material. Hermione only wished they were organized by their price tag, for when she had finally chosen one that she had liked, the price for it was so high that she was pretty sure it cost more than the money her parents paid for their entire house.

After spending about an hour, Hermione was exhausted and was quite frustrated. She sat down on the velvet couch that the store sported in each section. Ginny, being an expert and therefore not being as intimidated and tired as she was, gave her a reassuring smile before sitting down beside her.

Hermione solemnly looked at her. "I remember now why I hated shopping for robes in the first place."

Ginny only laughed. "Hermione, you can't give up. You've got to look absolutely stunning. You know, make all the blokes in the place drool after you."

Hermione frowned at her friend's comment.

"Besides," Ginny said, giving her a curious look. "You never did tell me why you suddenly needed dress robes, just out of the blue like that. Is the school having a ball and didn't tell me?" She feigned offense.

Hermione shook her head. "It's a Heads thing, Ginny. It's just a formal event that we have to attend with Dumbledore." Hermione remembered that she was not to tell anyone about the Showcase, and she did feel guilty, but she had to keep her word to Dumbledore. She knew Ginny could very well be trusted, but Hermione felt that if she told her then it wouldn't be fair to Ron and Harry — she'd have to tell them as well.

Ginny nodded her head; taking the hint that Hermione wasn't going to further extend her answer for some specifics. She looked disappointed, but quickly covered it up with a smile. "Heads, huh?" she said, grinning with a hint of familiar Weasley mischief. "So you mean Malfoy will be there as well?"

Hermione scowled at her, knowing just where this was going to go.

"Yes, he will be," she said. "But that doesn't mean you have the right to come up with some plan to try to match us up again, is that clear?" Ginny pouted. "I mean it, Ginny," she said in a warning tone.

"Fine, fine," she said, she said solemnly. "But the question is: are you going to be bringing a _date_?"

"Yes," she replied.

Ginny perked up, her eyes lighting up with opportunity and enthusiasm. "Really?" she gaped. Hermione nodded. "Oh! Hermione!" she squealed in delight. "That's _splendid!_ I know exactly who—"

"No, Ginny," she firmly said. "I already know who I'm going to ask."

Ginny calmed down, but the curious spark inside her eyes brightened. "You do?" she asked. Her face fell. "Oh, Hermione, you aren't going to take Ron or Harry, are you?" she groaned. "That is so juvenile, going with your best mates. I hope you know this is suicide to your love life—"

"I'm not going with Harry _or_ Ron!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Oh?" Ginny asked, even more curious. "Who are you planning to ask, then?"

"Connor."

Ginny scrunched up her face in bewilderment. "Connor?" she asked in confusion. "Who's _Connor_?" Ginny paused, trying to search her thoughts. "He isn't in Gryffindor, is he?"

Hermione shook her head. "He's in Hufflepuff. He's the Seeker for their Quidditch team."

After a second more of trying to remember, Ginny suddenly lit up. "_Oh!_ Connor!" she exclaimed, and then she broke into giggles. "Nice eye, Hermione. But how do you know him? He isn't in any of your classes."

"I met him from Seamus, and then he applied for the position as the Harmonium's Quidditch Expert."

Ginny nodded, grinning. "Fantastic, Hermione," she told her. "He's quite a catch."

Hermione gave her a small smile.

A picture of Draco flashed inside her mind, making her heart jump and a feeling of nausea pass through her.

"Thanks, Ginny."

"Excuse me?"

Hermione and Ginny looked up to see a lady standing in front of them with a polite and shy smile on her face. Her face was framed with dark curls that lightened thoughtful hazel eyes.

"Might you be Hermione Granger?"

Hermione nodded slowly, cautiously.

The lady sighed in relief and her smile became bigger. "Thank Merlin!" she laughed softly. She held out her hand, and Hermione shook it though still confused and curious.

"I'm Winslet," she said, smiling widely. "Professor Dumbledore told me to look for you. We have a special selection for you to pick from in the backroom, if you happen to have any trouble."

Hermione suddenly felt her heart leap at her lucky circumstance and smiled widely.

"That's splendid!" she exclaimed. Winslet nodded, eyes sparkling. "It's funny that you came by just right now, because I am… quite in a puddle, actually," Hermione chuckled lightly, although she felt herself color from embarrassment.

"Oh!" said Winslet. "Well, I'd be glad to lead you to the backroom so you could choose from the selections there."

Hermione nodded as she snuck a glance at Ginny, who was feeling rather happy and surprised at their luck as well. Hermione and Ginny stood up as Winslet started to guide them through the store.

"So, the robes," Ginny spoke up, "you said 'special selection.' What exactly does that mean?"

"Oh, you'll love it," she raved excitedly. "Headmaster Dumbledore's been a friend to this store for years. When he asked if we could help out with the special occasion going on, we were more than happy to accept. He chose them out himself, with help from a few professors."

Ginny winced.

Hermione gave her a questioning look before she finally understood.

Ginny expected the selections to be awful, no doubt. Dumbledore, or, in fact, any of the professors weren't exactly the most fashionable bunch when it came to the current and contemporary styles of their generation.

"Oh," said Hermione, laughing nervously. She was now quite uneasy herself. She hoped profusely Dumbledore had asked at least one sensible (in the fashion sense) professor for help with the selection. She needed new, _good_ robes suitable for the special affair and she hoped it would fit in her shopping budget as well. She didn't know what she'd do if she didn't find robes for the Talent Showcase. Perhaps she could borrow something from Parvati or Lavender.

They went through a door painted deep violet, entering a passageway with multicolored doors on each side. Hermione became mildly alarmed as she snuck a glance at Ginny, who did not share her slight panic but instead seemed wildly fascinated.

"Um, excuse me, Winslet?" asked Hermione.

"Yeah?" she replied as a lady came out of a bright yellow door with a midnight dress that glittered vibrantly. The lady waved to Winslet as she passed, and Ginny looked longingly at the dress she held in her hands.

"What exactly… _is_ this?" she asked, puzzled. "What are all the doors for?"

"Oh, well, those doors," she said, motioning to the ones they were passing with her hands, "are special rooms with designers and workers who specialize in making robes for this company," she beamed proudly. "They're the most sought out and famed." Hermione nodded, understanding. "They're individually colored so we can remember which room has what."

"We have a few rooms where all the planning takes place," she informed them, as Hermione looked down the passageway that seemed to have no end. It was just doors and doors and doors. "Splendid ideas, I tell you. Brilliant."

"All of these doors for… _robes_?" Hermione asked, in awe. They must have at least passed twenty doors by now.

"Of course," Winslet smiled.

"It seems like this corridor never ends," she sighed as they continued to pass doors.

"That's because it doesn't."

Hermione gave her a surprised look and a wide grin spread across Winslet's face as she chuckled amusedly.

"Pardon?" Hermione asked, not sure if she heard her correctly.

"It doesn't end. It was especially made that way so that if we get more workers or need more rooms, we can just add some more without any of the hassles of building or adding a new wing."

It was only seconds later that they finally came to a stop. They stopped in front of a deep blue door with a silver doorknob. Hermione watched as Winslet fished out a shiny silver key from her front pocket and slipped it in the keyhole. She turned it with a single click, but as she quickly withdrew it, Hermione heard what seemed like hundreds of locks turning and opening from inside the wall. Even Ginny seemed to be alarmed now.

But the peculiar noises stopped as Winslet turned to them and smiled reassuringly.

"Don't let that scare you," she said. "It's just a safety measure. Some of these dresses are worth far more than you can imagine."

Hermione swallowed hard, nervous and very uneasy. She was having tremendous doubts on finding robes for the Showcase. From her remark, it was obvious that the robes they stored in the room (considering all the locks) were far too expensive for her tastes and budget.

Winslet turned the doorknob, opened the door, and stepped in. She motioned for them to come in, an inviting and welcoming smile on her face. Hermione was hesitant, knowing that she would most likely only come out empty-handed. People like the Malfoys or whoever were probably the only ones with their robes in a special room with hundreds of locks to protect them from expensive-robe-stealing burglars. Or from the touches of ordinary middle class Muggle-born witches like her.

Hermione sighed as Ginny nudged her.

"Hermione?" prodded Ginny. "Go on."

And Hermione, knowing that she didn't have anything to lose anyway, stepped in as Ginny followed after her.

oooo

Hermione was beaming as she stepped out of Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions.

She held their trademark violet bag in her hands as a refreshing breeze swept through her hair. Ginny sighed beside her as Hermione heard the bells ring at the door behind them as another would-be customer walked into the store. Hermione gave Ginny a smile, and Ginny returned it, laughing lightly. They started to walk down the cobblestone street, grateful that Diagon Alley was not so busy this time of year as it was in August or September.

"It's your luck, Hermione," Ginny said to her. "Someone up there really adores you."

They both decided it would be a smart thing to head on over to Hogsmeade and go to the Three Broomsticks since they still had a few hours. But as soon as they arrived, Ginny spotted Seamus, who instantly waved them over, and they found themselves heading towards their table.

"I could get my own table, you know," Hermione whispered to her as they walked. "It wouldn't be a problem at all."

Ginny shook her head. "Oh, nonsense, Hermione! You'll sit with us. Harry and Ron are coming later, and you needn't wait for them."

"Ron?" she asked, confused. "Is he out of the hospital wing already?"

Ginny only nodded and smiled. "Early this afternoon. Sorry I forgot to tell you. Madam Pomfrey released him from 'her evil, bony clutches.' His words, not mine. He was thrilled. You should have seen his face light up like he'd just been informed that Professor Snape was dead."

They arrived at the table with Seamus kissing Ginny lightly on the lips as a greeting, which made Hermione's stomach secretly turn. It only reminded her that that section in her life was rather empty at the moment. Luckily, it was only a small peck (Hermione was grateful that they didn't forget there was another person here – her), but from the look in Ginny's eyes, Hermione could tell that they'd been heading down to the castle earlier than usual.

They sat down, Seamus and Ginny one side of the booth and Hermione alone on the other. Seamus draped his arm around his girlfriend as they lightly chatted.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" asked Hermione.

Both shook their heads.

"Of course not, Hermione," Seamus told her. "But, however, just in case you feel like a third wheel, I invited a friend along as well. So if _you_ feel like a third wheel, he'll feel like a fourth wheel." Laughter rang in their booth, blending in with the indistinct conversations of the pub, which seemed to be jam packed with Hogwarts students.

"Thanks, Seamus," she told him. "But who'd you invite? Harry isn't here with Ron just yet," she said, standing a bit and scanning the crowded place.

"I'm sure you remember him, Hermione. Connor, my friend from the snowball fight earlier in the year. You two met for your interview."

A sly smile grew on Ginny's face as Hermione jumped.

"Really?" Hermione asked.

Seamus nodded.

"Well, that's just fantastic!" Ginny exclaimed.

Seamus shot them curious yet suspicious looks. "Why? Does she fancy him?"

"Yes!" Ginny said, at the same time as Hermione said "No!" Both gave each other a look.

Seamus grinned at Hermione, who, in turn, scowled. "Look, Hermione, if you need me to play matchmaker, I don't mind. In fact, Connor's been asking about you."

"He has?" Hermione asked, before her mannerly senses jumped back into her system. "I mean, that's nice, but I _don't_ fancy him, all right? And as for the matchmaker remark, that's very kind of you, Seamus, but I'm afraid I don't need you to. I just need to ask him something."

"Out on a date, you mean?"

"No!" Hermione exclaimed, the same time as Ginny said, "Yes!" Hermione glared at her, crossing her arms. "Stuff it, will you?" she snapped, annoyed.

Ginny only smiled at her, shrugging. "Fine. After all, he's here." Hermione's eyes widened. "Then you can tell him yourself."

And as if on cue, not a moment later, Connor was standing before their table. Hermione raised an eyebrow at Ginny, who yet again, only shrugged.

"Connor!" Seamus greeted him. "Nice to see you, mate."

"Likewise," he nodded to Seamus.

"Well, have a seat."

Connor smiled and sat down beside Hermione.

"The lovely girl you're sitting next to is Hermione," Seamus said, motioning over to her. Hermione flushed a bright red. "I'm sure you remember her. At least the 'lovely' part, anyway."

"Shut up, Seamus!" Hermione snapped, her face heating up even more as Seamus laughed. Hermione looked at Connor at the corner at her eye, whom she saw smiling at her. Hermione felt an odd squirming in her stomach.

"So, Connor, I hear you tried out for a spot on the Harmonium," said Seamus.

"Yeah," he nodded.

"Did you get it?"

Connor looked at Hermione as he opened his mouth to reply, but she got to it first.

"Actually, he didn't," she said quickly.

Seamus raised an eyebrow at the both of them. "Oh? Then, who did?"

Hermione wrung her hands underneath the table, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. "Malfoy beat him to it," she solemnly informed them. She turned to Connor, who was looking at her intently.

"Awfully sorry he was such an arsehole to you, by the way," she said to him, regretfully. "I mean, he's an arsehole to everyone, but…"

"Just especially to me?" he laughed.

Hermione cracked a smile, but shook her head. Somehow she didn't find that funny at all. She just found it sad. "He's got issues. But who couldn't have guessed that, right?"

Connor laughed.

"Hey, I would've offered a hearty 'Cheers!' to that if we'd have had our drinks yet. Who volunteers?" said Seamus.

"I do," Hermione said quickly, seeing it as an opportunity to take Connor along to ask him to be her date for the Talent Showcase. If she was going to do it, she might as well do it now, while the night was young and she had plenty of leeway to escape quickly if she needed to.

"Thanks, Hermione," they said as Connor got out of his seat to let her out. She scooted out and stood up, nervously smiling. Connor sat back down. Hermione swallowed hard, trying to rid of her uneasiness and fear.

"Um, Connor?" she asked, trying to make her voice as even as possible. They all looked at her, and her heart started racing. "I'm going to need some help with the drinks, and I was wondering if you'd like to go with me."

She saw Ginny and Seamus exchange glances as Ginny secretly gave her a thumbs-up.

Connor smiled widely as he stood. "Certainly," he responded kindly, and they went on their way to order. They went to the bar and waited as Madam Rosmerta took orders from another customer. Hermione snuck glances at him from the corner of her eye, extremely nervous. She'd never asked a bloke out before. In truth, she was ridiculously old-fashioned. She expected the male to ask out the female, but if it really extended to desperation, then it didn't matter.

'_And that is what this is,'_ she thought to herself, trying to relax. '_Desperation.' _All she felt, however, was the secret tugging in her stomach that made her want to cower into the darkest corner of the room and just stay there until this had all faded away into something that _couldn't_ humiliate her.

She quickly looked at the bartender and made sure she had quite a long way to go before she looked back at Connor. Connor was looking at her, and he grinned merrily. "Is there something wrong? You seem…"

"Fidgety? Nervous? Scared to death? That's because I am," she laughed timidly.

Connor gave her a questioning look.

She felt pathetic.

"And now you're wondering why, aren't you?"

He nodded.

"Just as well." Hermione took a deep breath in hopes of calming her ecstatic nerves. "Listen, Connor, we have this Talent Showcase going on, and it's only for the Heads and their… dates. And I understand if you wouldn't want to go, or if you have Quidditch practice that day, that's really, totally fine. But, just in case, I was wondering if you wanted to… accompany me, there."

Connor smiled brilliantly. He seemed tickled by her request. "You mean, be your date?"

Hermione swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes. As in be my date." She twittered awkwardly, balancing on the balls of her feet. "I mean," she rambled on nervously, now more uneasy than ever. "I'd really understand if you didn't want to go with me, since, let's face it, I'm not the most exciting or gorgeous girl in—"

"I'd love to," he suddenly said, cutting her off.

Hermione halted in mid-sentence, wide-eyed.

"Really?" she asked in disbelief. He nodded, smiling. She let out a sigh of relief.

"Oh, thank Merlin," she whispered. There was a clear message of gratitude written across her relieved face. "Thank you," she told him sincerely, feeling her heart beat furiously under her palm.

He smiled pleasantly. "The pleasure's mine," he reassured her.

Hermione's face took up a hot shade of red.

Unfortunately, sitting only one person away from them was Draco Malfoy, who had his back turned to them but was listening just as attentively as ever. Now, it was true that he couldn't have given a rat's arse about Granger and her personal life – but that was before he even knew she could _get_ a personal life. And it seemed as if, sitting there with his teeth suddenly clamping down on the glass lip of his mug, the butterbeer sweet but warm inside his throat, he felt a sudden upsurge of liquid cause his ribcage to jerk outwards. And he didn't understand why. All right, maybe a little (just because he wasn't dense) but just because he understood didn't mean it made _any sense_. In fact, it made _no_ sense whatsoever. _Granger_ with the Hufflepuff pansy? _Seriously_?

He knew very well – quite clear – that he shouldn't give a damn about her and her private business at all. He should be glad for her. Granger had finally found someone just as insufferable just as she was! Hurrah! But – and this was the thing – he wasn't. He wasn't at all. And that's what he reckoned really killed him. He sat there in a frozen trance, a strange but gritty tintinnabulation scraping against his eardrums and causing his nerves to hum. He suddenly almost even felt sick. Like throwing up the butterbeer he had just chugged down the last of. He could feel it crawling up again, slithering up his gullet, and it took all he had not to gag. He suddenly had a flash of them together, at the Showcase. Hufflepuff wearing his stupid canary-yellow robes that made him look like bloody Mister Sunshine – more like sodding Mister I-Just-Urinated-All-Over-Myself, he had to say. But then he saw Granger. Being happy and laughing with her stupid bushy hair and her stupid hawk eyes.

And he realized that he didn't _want_ her to be happy. No, not with _him_.

Draco turned his head, his ears tuning in and out that it made his throat suddenly dry and quenched, watching as his hands clenched against the handle of his empty glass as Madam Rosmerta took their order and set four glasses of butterbeers before them on the counter. He felt dizzy, as if he had just been kicked in the head, or punched in the gut with brass knuckles. He continued to watch them with diluted eyes as they took two glasses each, laughing and talking happily with one another.

He abruptly stood up, not thinking at all but feeling a sudden strong momentum pounding down on his feet and a burning sensation in his chest, as he rapidly walked towards them with a churning squall inside his molten eyes and purposely bumped against Connor's shoulder as he passed.

A bolt of pain shot up Connor's arm as suddenly both glasses of butterbeer were loosened from his grip and fell to the floor with a loud crash, also managing to soak him the along the way.

People halted their conversations and stared, interrupted by the abrupt raucous.

Hermione stared, wide-eyed at the mess of shattered glass and butterbeer on the floor. She felt everyone's eyes on them as suddenly she looked up and turned, catching a flash of a shocking head of platinum blond hair zigzagging through the crowd. Realization surged through her as her once in-bliss expression quickly transcended into intense anger. Her deep chestnut eyes darkened and were now ablaze with rage, expertly whipping out her wand and pointing it at the chaos on the floor. Through clenched teeth, she quickly said a repairing spell that fixed the broken glasses and butterbeer before their eyes in an instant, and then she transfixed her wand at Connor before she hastily said aloud a spell to drain the sticky butterbeer miserably dripping from his clothing and skin. He was looking at her apologetically, as if this all had been his fault.

There was no doubt in everyone's minds (who were watching the scene) that Hermione Granger was quite… well, angry. They quickly turned back into their business, faking it as if they were really continuing their conversations when she shot them all a look that resembled somewhat the look a deranged banshee would give before she went on a massacring rampage. In rage, she clutched her wand until she could feel her fingers embedding into the skin of her palm. She looked over at Connor, her expression fierce and vicious. Even he wanted to take a step back in fear of what she was capable of when she was as livid as she was now.

_Whoa_. He hadn't considered _this_ side of her when he had said yes.

"Head on over to Seamus and Ginny," she said lowly, her eyes like a siren before danger. "I'll be back." And without another word, she had turned on her heel and rapidly started to walk out of the pub, following the tracks of one Draco Malfoy.

She pushed through the crowds, dodging chatty students and laughing mobs of adults, and started to run as she finally made it out of the Three Broomsticks. She was breathing heavily, gnashing her teeth, as she looked for him. Her heart was pounding in her chest and for some strange reason she got the impression of hammering deep inside of her heart. She ignored the onlookers that watched her curiously as she searched for him, going on her tiptoes and pacing sideways to try and look for him.

Finally, she spotted him behind two witches beside Zonko's. Hermione, feeling a new surge of adrenalin and renewed rage, sprinted until her legs shook with the force she slapped against the hard cobblestones.

"Malfoy!" she shouted furiously, her sneakers pounding against the street. People, startled by her yells, turned their heads and backed away onto the side of the street and out of her way for it was very clear that she wasn't one to politely excuse herself in such a hostile disposition.

"_Malfoy!"_

Draco's heart jumped as soon as he heard her voice though he wasn't surprised at all that she'd come after him. He didn't know if part of him had been expecting that but he should have known she wouldn't let him go without a fight. He knew he was going to get nothing less than hell from her merely from the tone of her voice, but he kept walking, his eyes dark and his expression still the same as before. No, he had not "cooled down" from what had happened in the pub. He had to admit it: he had overheard the last thing he ever wanted to hear, and it sent him into a jealous rage. Call it stupid, call it harebrained, it was what it was. He _hated_ her. Hated her and that _stupid_ Connor Hufflepuff. If he could've he would've bashed their heads together. And so if the purpose for this whole mess wanted to scream and scold at him, then so be it. He knew just what to say.

She knew he could hear her. She was even more infuriated that he didn't stop, and so Hermione ran faster, until finally, she reached him. She grabbed his arm tightly; grasping a handful of the expensive material his dark cloak was made of.

"Malfoy," she hissed. "We have to talk." And before he could protest, she had pulled him into a deserted dark alleyway.

"Granger, get your filthy hand off of me!" he shouted, jerking it away from her. She turned around to face him, her face written with the every ounce of the angry, boiling blood she had inside of her.

Suddenly, she walked straight up to him and raised her hand, giving one fast and harsh swing, her palm striking his cheek at rapid speed. Draco's head snapped to the side.

To a pair of foreign ears that hadn't a clue about their situation, it would sound just as a crack of a whip in a winter-stricken court would. It was loud, fierce and brutal. Her violent aggressiveness that she hadn't spared a minute invoking on him only left him in cold shock.

Draco's head was to the side, stunned at her actions. His cheek burned intensely as if she had merely set his skin on fire. It stung from the callous and ruthless contact of her hand, fueled by every drop of her frustration and pent-up rage. There was a trill ringing in his ears, as he simply stood there, shocked.

However, the shock didn't last long. It quickly transformed into fury as he straightened himself and glowered at her with an intensity and iciness that could have pierced through stone.

"How dare you?" she said lowly, dangerously. She shook as she said this. "How _dare_ you?"

Draco's eyes narrowed at her, the icy flecks in his stormy gray eyes smoldering like a white flame. His hands clenched into tight fists. His cheek tingled with a painful hostility that almost made him want to flinch. In all honesty, he wanted to scream at her. _Go to hell, Granger! _he wanted to yell. _You and Hufflepuff _both_ – go to hell! Leave me alone! For once in your life, stop your henpecking and just leave me the f—_

"You did it intentionally, you bastard," she accused, trembling. She was trying her best not to scream at him, but then she realized she did not care for keeping a low volume anymore. "I want to know _why_. I want to know why you go out of your way to ruin things for me, to take opportunities away from me. I want to know why you're trying to make me miserable, when _I_, in return, have done _nothing_, absolutely _nothing_ to you. _Why_, Malfoy? I demand an answer!"

Her dainty chin – along with her voice – quivered.

"Who said you could touch me, Mudblood?" he snarled, his face fiercely twisted in contempt. It'd been a long time, perhaps, but right now he _hated_ her. Truly, truly hated her. And he didn't care if the reasons had all perversely shifted and everything was different now, frighteningly different, and his hate and anger shepherded by the thought of her was unjustified on noble levels. Being noble was shit. He didn't care about being noble.

"You deserved it," she retaliated. "You _know_ you did. Now _answer_ my question before I can no longer control the urge to hit you again." Draco stayed quiet, seething. "Why must you really try to ruin—"

"I _heard_ your bloody question, Granger," he spat aggressively. "I'm not dense _or_ deaf."

"Well then it'd help if you'd just answer!" she screamed, frustrated.

"Fine!" he shouted at her. "Do you want to know _why_ I'm purposely trying to ruin your life?"

Hermione was breathing heavily as she nodded.

"Because _you're_ ruining mine!" he yelled.

"And just _how_ in Merlin's name am _I_ ruining _your_ life?" she fired back, her eyes starting to get bloodshot and her nostrils flaring in her passion. "_How_? What have I _done_ to you?"

"Figure it out, Granger," he spat with vehemence. "You're clever." He started to turn away, not wanting to look at her anymore for fear that he might do something brash, but she grabbed his arm and twisted him around to face her again.

"Tell me," she hissed, her face just inches from his. "And until you do, you aren't going _anywhere_."

Draco glowered at her. And in the heat of the moment, he spoke the absolute truth without sugarcoating, without thinking: "He isn't good enough for you." And he knew he probably shouldn't have said it because doing what he had just done required a lot of sacrificing of his pride on his behalf. Draco Malfoy was not the sort to go around and tell stupid mental cases like her that boys like Hufflepuff didn't deserve them. Because how on earth was _he_ supposed to know? He _wasn't_. Yet he did, uncannily, and it really hurt him, in a way. Because he really didn't want to know that. He really wanted to be able to tell her something else – something vindictive and mean and real stereotypical so he could repay her for that little slap she'd given him (that, by the way, hurt like hell) – but what came out was the truth. And he hated the truth sometimes, especially when it just slipped out. It just never helped the situation. It only spurred basketcases like Hermione Granger on because they were fierce like that.

He really hated that about her. _A lot_.

"_What?"_

"I _said_ he isn't _good_ enough for you! Why in the _hell_ would you even consider asking _him_ to the Showcase?" he yelled, jerking his arm away again. There he went again. The truth. What was the _matter_ with him? Why could he just-just _hex_ her and run for his life? "He wears _yellow_ and the fastest he'd ever caught the blasted Snitch was _fifty-five_ sodding _minutes_!"

He was acting all on impulse now. His brain had detached from the rest of his body and was floating adrift somewhere unreachable to his mortal fibers. His rage – though jawless – had eaten him whole. And perhaps it was stupid, but he was going to scream in her face until all of his pounding frustration had finally left him. Because maybe then he would finally feel sane again. Maybe he would be able to concentrate and not feel as if Hermione Granger was the single most infuriating yet most beautiful damned creature on this planet.

Maybe, if he told her all of this now, this would disappear. He would go back to hating her – _really_ hating her. Not just hating her because she made him angry and jealous. _Not_ because he thought about her so constantly now that it had to be considered some undiagnosed mental illness. _Not_ because he often wondered how she'd gotten so stupidly pretty and so witty that sometimes he just wanted to kiss her because she said such clever things.

That. All of that would be gone. No more mystery. No more appeal.

"Because he treats me well," she informed him sternly. "And he isn't like _you_."

Draco scowled at her, his eyes narrowed into slits as he grabbed her arm as well, pulling her closer. His fingers enclosed around her arm tightly, making her wince from the shoots of pain rocketing up her arm, and he wasn't quite soberly aware now that he was manhandling her, one could say. She was just making him so _angry_ for being so stubborn.

"If you wanted to take me, all you had to do was ask," she whispered, her brown eyes glittering dimly, her trembling breaths brushing against his face and making goose bumps to peak all over the back of his neck and arms.

"And would you have said yes?" he asked her in a spiteful tone.

She opened her mouth, but shut it immediately, hesitating to speak aloud what had first come to her mind.

"No, you wouldn't have," he said, answering his own question, as if he'd known exactly that she was quite unsure about the matter. "_Exactly_ my point, Granger."

"You're wrong," she snapped defiantly, her voice increasing its volume. "I would have."

Draco shook his head and quickly let go of her arm.

"You're lying, and _you_ know it," he spat harshly, getting ready to leave.

"Oh, yeah?" she yelled. "How about _you_? Who are _you_ taking? Some brain-dead _trollop_ you found out in the street?"

"No," he responded coldly. The iciness of his voice bit at her like frostbite. "I'm not taking anyone. Because, see, unlike _you_, Granger, I don't waste my time on people who aren't worth my energy. I don't associate with people who don't attempt to understand things that are out of their league. I have class. I don't play games."

"Like _hell_, Malfoy," she scoffed. "You expect me to believe the _rubbish_ you're giving me? That you don't play games? _Everything's_ been a game to you. Quidditch, academics, social ladders, blood_. Lives_. You said so yourself. I'm clever. Clever enough to see through your bloody charades."

He let go of her. "I'm leaving," he snapped at her. "Have fun with your _date_," he spat, backing away.

"Shut up, Malfoy," she snapped. "Why can't you leave me _alone_? Why can't you leave Connor alone? Why can't you just leave us be? We haven't done _anything_ to you. I don't know _what_ I did to deserve your bloody cruelty. Is it just the blood running through my veins? Or is it something else?"

He froze. Then he turned around swiftly, his eyes flashing like daggers in the light, walking towards her again. He stopped until he was only inches from her. "You don't understand, do you, Granger?" he yelled at her. "You just don't understand anything at all! You're just so damned misleading, acting as if you _know_ everything, know how to handle everything with such _perfect_ and precise skill, but you _can't_! You can't even see what's right there, right in front of you!"

"_What_ are you talking about?" she asked him, almost exasperatedly. "In _front_ of me? Maybe I'd _understand_ if you would actually give me some bloody clue!"

"Fine," he spat.

And just then, without even the slightest hint of what was to happen, he grabbed her face, dragging her closer, and put his heated lips on hers, kissing her furiously, sending her body into a complete and utter frozen state. Her anger vanished, her thoughts were listless and her mind was sent spinning off to somewhere she knew very well that she wouldn't be able to reach any time soon. Electricity crackled through her fingers and veins, and the pounding of her heart hammered in her ears, causing her pulse to quicken and her body to warm against his.

And, uncannily, she stopped thinking. Just like that. She knew that if anyone else had heard about this, how Draco Malfoy's single act of going about to kiss her – _without_ permission – had literally stopped her brain from functioning, they would bowl over in confusion. And it wasn't that he was such a knockout kisser that once she felt his lips crushed against hers and that drizzle of warmth on her tongue that oddly thrilled her in a way she knew assignments would never ever do; it was just that it was _him_. The stranger, the bully – the highbrow prick with the hauteur lined with diamonds and emeralds. And she knew that she was supposed to be disgusted and maybe even cut off his tongue for ambushing her mouth… but she was just so distracted. She couldn't think. And for the first time ever in her life, this sort of immobility and state of senselessness did not send her into frustration and franticness. For the first time, she was _happy_ not thinking.

It amazed her that it actually took her _three_ kisses from Draco Malfoy to realize that.

Suddenly, he pulled away. He looked her straight in the eye as he dropped his hands from her face. Hermione felt her heart shudder and her knees – oh, her poor knees – quiver as if they had just been bled dry of their strength.

"There," he finally said, in a husky voice that Hermione felt flitter against her bones and pass along her bloodstream, making her cheeks flush vibrantly against the cold.

And then she watched him earnestly as he took a step back and turned on his heel, walking away with a stoic last impression, the breeze causing his dark cloak to billow behind him. He left the alley.

Hermione watched after him, in a daze.

She shut her eyes tightly as she covered her face with her hands, his saccharine, distinctive taste still lingering on her stung lips and inside her mouth. She was having quite a hard time trying to decide if what had just happened was reality or just a reckless fantasy gone wild. She actually didn't want to believe either. Somewhere in between all of this, this roller coaster of an events chart and the fits of rage all severely connected to vicious bouts of jealousy, she'd lost track of all of the insane things that seemed perfectly intent on sadistically unraveling her entire being. She didn't like this. She didn't like this at all. Everything. She was just confused, now. Utterly, utterly confused.

And this was never supposed to happen. Her opinions and views of Draco Malfoy had been set in concrete right from the beginning – right from the moment he'd started on his lifelong journey on making Harry Potter's, hers, and Ron's life a living monstrosity of taunts and bullying. Everything had been _set_. Nothing was ever supposed to be reset again, or changed. Because she'd always known that if that, in fact, did happen, everything would start going wrong too. Because you couldn't just change one thing and expect everything else to remain intact. It was a chain reaction. Everything was.

She opened her eyes. She looked around and licked her lips, feeling a strange but familiar buzzing in her fingers, palms and skin. There were sparks in her veins.

"Bloody hell," she heavily sighed.

She unsteadily walked towards the damp wall of the alleyway, pressing her palm against the cold stones. Then she turned around and closely compressed her back against the wall. Groaning in dissatisfaction with her current situation, feeling yet again the remarkable consequences of Draco Malfoy's kisses, she sank down to the dirt floor.

**Please Review!**


	25. Effort Makes the World Go Round

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: Don't own HP or Hogwarts. Ask J.K. Rowling. I bet you she'd say she does.

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**Edited a lot more recently than you think.**

Uh… song written by me, just a lame piece of poetry, so don't mind it. I was originally going to put in some beautiful song but then that whole rule about no song rules just had to apply, and I also realized that you lot couldn't even hear the music while you were reading it, so I thought, what the hey? Hope you do enjoy and I think you'll be more relieved because it's like that big sigh of relief. Finally! Draco and Hermione FINALLY get over their half-witted selves and GET TOGETHER! After nearly thirty chapters of denial and cat and mouse, I'm practically in tears of exhaustion. I need a drink.

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**Effort Makes the World Go Round**

Now this is probably the part where you're thinking Hermione Granger was suddenly going to glam up and turn into Beautiful Swan from Ugly Duckling sort of thing – there is a saying that with the right amount of glitter, concealer, hairspray and all that jazz (or botox, if you're old or just look it) you could look like Cher, back when she'd been great-looking, in contrast to how she is now: just creepy. But it was neither Hermione nor anybody else's incentive to go dolling her up into Cher Reincarnated so she just went for a more simple, sophisticated look – with not even a spritz of hairspray or anything, which was right out bold, if you're a woman and know what I'm saying. She didn't do anything particularly shocking; she didn't have anybody to impress, and even with the topic lingering around of her business with Draco Malfoy, she was not the type of girl to go trying to impress a piggish cad. It was a Don't Sell Out sort of thing.

Hermione was neurotic and nearly insane, so it wouldn't surprise any simpleton to say that she lost some sleep thinking about what had happened in that alley. She kept replaying it in her head like some movie until somehow she'd replayed it so often that it'd become blurry and skipped a lot. She didn't really understand. It was like one of those times, you know, when things _just happened_ and you're left in the aftershock thinking about whether to try killing yourself or asking somebody else to kill you – you know, for you. Because she was – by some bizarre occurrence that probably involved some hidden camera show – _in love_ with him. Why? Only God knows. Seriously. Even she couldn't answer why she was, and she spent nearly the past two days trying to think of at least one reason why.

Were Draco a normal bloke, this was the first thing she would have insisted on in said list: He was a nice guy. Cue buzzer sound here. No, totally wrong. He wasn't nice _at all_. Certainly he had his moments but even those were so rare… they were like _fossils_, and even then he acted like he had a stick up his bum. Second possible reason: He's smart. Eh, so-so. Yes, he was Head Boy, so that automatically implied smartness having something to do with it. Third: He cares about the earth. Like hell he did. He went around telling people they didn't deserve to live. He littered, and probably had clothes made from some animal skin. So that was a clear no. Fourth: He made her feel good. Now this one was a vague one. Her instant reaction had been a straight out No, because he insulted her and made her feel so inferior to him. But then he went around kissing her. Then the story took a complete one-eighty. Fifth: He cared about her.

She actually didn't know about that one. She reckoned he did. Of course, she'd wished she had the opportunity to test him on that, for instance, maybe faint in the middle of the hall right in front of him to see if he'd get down on his knees and call for help and start hysterically crying or something. But she just had this feeling in her chest like he did. But remember she was crazy.

So right now she was looking at herself in the mirror, dressed in her crimson robes, her hair in tamed curls, smelling like vanilla and flowers. Her heart was pounding. When she tried to smile she looked like a madwoman. She was clearly nervous, and it was really stupid to say, which is probably why she would never say it out loud, but it was all because of that stupid Draco Malfoy. Because even if she couldn't find _one_ _real_ _reason_ why she _should_ go for him, why he was worth this, worth sabotaging her whole life for – she was still doing it. Hah, because she was a crazy person. And because her mother's voice got into her head again, talking about risks. She wished she could get it out, but it was just _there_. "If you don't risk anything, you won't get anything you want," it kept saying.

Hermione sighed.

So apparently, now Draco Malfoy had somehow become something she wanted.

oooo

"Connor," she smiled as he shyly grinned at her, noticeably a tad uneasy in his dress robes. She neared him, and she watched his eyes take in the sight of her and felt her cheeks flush. She stopped in front of him as he handed her a single-stemmed crimson rose, which made her smile falter a little, because she _despised_ roses. It was the _worst_ of all the flowers. But she just smiled and took it and told herself that she'd go to the loo later in the Hall and throw it away, or something.

"I wasn't sure if you liked roses, so I just –"

"It's great, don't worry," she said because she figured he wouldn't want to know her views on the total overrated perspective of roses. He offered her his arm and she took it. They started walking down the corridor.

"You look beautiful," he told her quietly, and a modest smile played on her face. She kind of laughed a little more than she ought to have, which she saw made him a little nervous, so she cleared her throat and straightened up again.

"Thank you," she politely said to him. "And, might I say, you're looking quite handsome yourself."

And Connor, bless his soul, laughed.

But as they walked down the empty corridors, her leading the way to the Private Hall, she began to bite her lip anxiously and even began to scratch her ear – not a very ladylike thing to do at all. But she just started to get this feeling in her stomach like she was… somehow _using_ Connor. Which was absolutely untrue, of course, because it was beyond impossible for her to ever _use_ anyone. On purpose, anyway. But she just felt out of place, that was all. The official-seeming state of them being each other's date with romantic potential for the night made her uneasy.

Connor was a great bloke, and was most certainly one of the most charming and kind of the lot she'd met over the years, but she just couldn't see herself feeling the same intense emotions for him as she did for… Draco. And it was as opposite as it could ever be, her falling for the bad boy instead of a true Prince Charming that would actually be good for her, but what could she do? How could you un-screw someone who was already as screwed as one could possibly be? And – uh – mentally _twisted_? Obviously if this whole Draco business sought out to prove anything it was that – of her defunct sanity.

Hermione stopped in her step abruptly, which caused her to pull Connor back.

He looked at her inquisitively. "What is it?" he asked her. "Are you all right, Hermione?" It looked as if he had thought she had broken a heel or something equally and idiotically girly.

Hah. She wished.

Hermione nodded, trying to make the dryness in her throat disappear.

"Connor," she said, before looking away. She sighed as she slipped her arm out of his. She wanted to look nice and sympathetic and apologetic – just in case he got angry and, well, wanted to hit her or something. "Do you get the feeling as if… something's off?" she asked him earnestly.

He sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. "So you felt it too," he said, shattering his grave image by slightly quirking the corners of his mouth.

Hermione gave him a small, sincere smile. "I'm sorry. I'm the worst date ever." Not really a far-fetched thing to say when she'd only been on one date in her life, and that was to the Yule Ball, with Viktor Krum who still wrote her letters telling her how happy he was with his new girlfriend now. Pathetic.

"No," he said, chuckling. "No, you aren't. Believe me, I've had worse," he laughed. "But, no, you aren't. I've just noticed that you've had some rather heavy matters on your mind."

Hermione nodded, terribly relieved that he understood and did not dump her right there in the dim corridor like she had expected him to. But, in all honesty, she would have understood perfectly if he had.

"I've… I've been thinking, about some things. About… someone," she said, honestly. "I feel horrible. I asked you to accompany me here tonight, and here I am, confessing that I'm not… interested in you."

To her surprise, Connor laughed. "Don't worry," he told her. "I'm not upset. It happens. I'm just awfully glad that you're being honest with me, instead of leading me on the entire night, pretending to be feeling something that you're not." Hermione smiled, feeling like such a jerk – it was the kind of fake smile a really pathetic person would put on. "But, I've got to admit, I am a bit sad. But I'm glad you told me. I really am."

Now she felt very bad about not falling in love with him. This was the ideal moment she would have fallen head over heels for him. And she should have, and she had a feeling she absolutely would have if stupid Draco hadn't taken her and thrown her down the well of All Things Terrible and Confusing, arms and legs flailing about.

Why was it that she had this perfect bloke standing right in front of her, being so kind and polite and so perfectly lovable, and she was still in love with a prick like _Draco Malfoy_?

Somebody shoot her. And where were those Muggle crazy pills when she needed them?

"You're amazing," she told him. And she did mean it. There were very few people she could actually say this to and genuinely mean it. "Thank you." For making me feel like a jerk.

"It's my pleasure," he said. But she was filled with nothing less of surprise as he offered his hand to her, holding it out for her to take. "But, even though you aren't romantically interested in me, a stunning lady cannot go to a ball alone. We can still go together, if you'd like. As friends."

Oh Merlin. And why had he not been snagged up yet by some Hufflepuff girl? Were they all wasting their time and breath on Draco, just like she was?

Hermione's grin broadened, as she took it.

And, for the moment, her worries were eased.

oooo

Hermione motioned for them to stop in front of a shadowed, sinister-looking door.

Hermione looked at it with a furrowed brow, trying to remember the instructions that Dumbledore had given her about the door. Connor glanced at her, before shifting his eyes to the door, once again.

"Well… this is it, isn't it?" he asked. Hermione nodded in reply. "What are we going to do? Is there some sort of password?"

"I don't think so," she answered, still in deep thought. She couldn't believe that she had forgotten what he had said about the door and how to gain entrance. It was like something Ron would do. And Neville. She scolded herself for her poor memory as she squinted her eyes and thought harder.

Connor observed Hermione, but saw that she was quite preoccupied in her attempt to try to remember what their headmaster meant for them to do when they reached this particular point. So, shrugging, he tried to think of some ways he could get the door open. He looked down, inspecting its smooth, midnight exterior. It had no door handle or knocker, so it was quite obvious it had to be opened with a spell or a password. Or maybe… maybe some sort of gesture. He decided to go with the spell concept first—it was the easiest.

He drew his wand, pointed it at the door, and said an unlocking spell aloud.

Hermione looked up in time to catch his spell, and watched as the door merely absorbed it, the spell having no affect on it whatsoever. Connor looked on in bewilderment before shaking his head, muttering under his breath and trying another.

His second try remained an unsuccessful attempt. And so did his third, his fourth, his fifth, and his sixth. Hermione merely stood back and watched, still in deep thought but quite amused at his persistence.

Finally, Connor sighed as he stepped back and tucked his wand back in the pocket of his robes. He looked at her, a boyish smile on his face from his failed efforts, as he motioned for her to try.

"What?" she asked him.

"Try to open it. Go on. I know you know more spells than any of us do here."

Hermione laughed, as she shook her head. "I think I can remember the letter clearly enough that he didn't say anything about needing to enact a spell." Connor playfully gaped at her as she burst into giggles. If giggles were an exact apt word. Hermione wasn't really one to giggle. So maybe… laughs. Okay, laughs. She burst into laughs.

"Well, thank you for standing back and saying nothing while laughing at my efforts," he told her, as she _laughed_. "It really, honestly, does scream gratitude and appreciation."

Hermione shook her head. "I'm sorry," she told him. "I… I don't know what I was thinking." But it wasn't a second later that she succumbed into another fit of laughter, and he laughed along.

When they had straightened up and composed themselves, Hermione got back to thinking. She paced in front of the door, her eyes trailing up and down, searching for any small clue that might give her a hint of what she was to do. Suddenly, she halted as her eyes bore firmly into the door. Something had snapped inside her, a hint of remembrance, a small piece of the puzzle, as she took one step towards the door.

"Did you remember?" she heard Connor ask her from behind.

Hermione said nothing, her lips pressed into a firm line, softly grazing her fingers against the door. To her surprise, when her fingertips pressed against its smooth surface, she felt warmth. She felt heat, radiating from the inside. She clenched her hand into a fist and knocked three times, firmly and loudly, before she stepped back, eager to see what would happen.

Suddenly, to their great amazement, a translucent face passed through the door. It was a face of a man with a long nose somewhat similar to Snape's, but with short hair that seemed to stick up wildly and rigidly, as if he'd been struck by lightning or had shown his hairdresser Nick Nolte's mug shot at his last appointment. His pale, dilated eyes rested on hers as she cleared her throat.

"You both here for the Show?" he asked them roughly, his eyes narrowing at them suspiciously. Hermione immediately got the hint that Dumbledore had made a big mistake hiring him as the doorman—he was not exactly the most welcoming ghost.

"Yes," she answered. "We are."

"Well then," he said, still in a coarse and throaty voice, as one of his arms passed through the door. In his hand was a list as he looked at her expectantly. "Names?"

"Hermione Granger and Connor Fordsman," she replied in the most mannered way she could muster herself to respond, despite the awful odor that seemed to be coming from his direction. It smelled like… dead ferrets.

Hermione almost laughed. Almost.

His eyes trailed down the list, before he looked at both of them, his eyes flickering warily over to Connor behind her. His rugged face twisted into a glower. "Very well then. Come on in." The ghost disappeared and the door silently opened to them as Connor quickly caught up to her and she slipped her arm inside his.

"Very clever," he complimented her, grinning. "I wish I could've thought of something so simple before wasting my time and energy on all those spells!" he chuckled.

Hermione felt her heart thunder in clamorous beats in her chest, feeling her stomach turn from her nervousness. She swallowed hard, the thought of seeing Draco pulsating loudly in her mind. "It's not your fault," she said, managing a wide smile as they walked in. "Not _all_ of us can be clever, now, can we?"

oooo

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore greeted them as they sat down at their table, which Hermione noticed was draped elegantly in a very expensive tablecloth, the color of shimmery champagne. There was a glass vase in the middle of their round table that held a sparkling, white rose – an extra touch of sophistication. Hermione beamed at him, his sapphire eyes twinkling with joy from behind his half-moon spectacles. "A great pleasure to see that you made it."

"Good evening, Headmaster," she said. "This is a beautiful hall. Stunning atmosphere."

Dumbledore nodded, a jolly and free-spirited smile on his aged face. "Thank you. I agree, just as well. I'm very glad you could make it tonight, Miss Granger. You're going to have a fantastic time, I assure you."

Hermione nodded, secretly hoping that his semi-promise was going to be proven true by the end of the night. Dumbledore's eyes then flickered to Connor seated across from her, and he held out his hand to him.

"Hullo Headmaster," Connor said politely, shaking his hand. "It's a pleasure to be here."

"And I take it you are Miss Granger's date?" he said, his eyes traveling to her before quickly turning back to Connor. Hermione felt a blush embellish her cheeks, but remained silent and just smiled.

"Yes," Connor replied, grinning widely. "I am. But we're just friends."

"Just as splendid," he simply said. "It's not such fun to watch the others dance on the dance floor in yearning," he told them, motioning to the clearing the middle of the massive hall.

Hermione's eyes widened. "Headmaster, we… we have to _dance_?" she asked, shocked and suddenly very worried.

"Of course," he said joyfully, which made Hermione almost want to be sick. "All the couples. What fun is music when you cannot enjoy it with a partner?" he heartedly said. He looked at Connor. "I must leave to greet the other guests, but remember," he said, directing his comment to Connor. "Let her lead if she insists."

And with that, he bid them a good evening and left to mingle with the other far-too-glamorous individuals in the room.

Hermione was looking down, feeling glum.

She hadn't known they were supposed to dance! Sure, she knew how to dance, since they had had to dance during the Yule Ball back in their fourth year, but she hadn't danced in ages! She was absolutely horrible! She was not so good on her feet, and certainly not good on her feet whilst trying to sway and step along to the music. She'd always been good at multitasking, but unfortunately not at that.

She frowned, scolding herself for not thoroughly thinking through all of the details.

If she had had the right mind to put two and two together: live music and a private, giant hall, she'd have at least guessed there'd be dancing. But she'd been preoccupied with other bothersome personal matters and she hadn't. But if she _had_ taken the time to do such a thing, she would've certainly taken time to at least learn how to not be so terrible at dancing, too.

It wasn't that she was – what was the word? – terrible. It was just that she was a tad dusty and rusty, that's all. Which, on some levels, was just as well.

"What's wrong, Hermione?" Connor asked her. "You look a bit… green."

In reply, Hermione gave him the sad, blunt truth. "I can't dance."

Connor's laughter filled her ears, and she turned to glare at him. She knew he wasn't exactly laughing at her and was only trying to be sincere, but the fact that he was amused with her clumsy feet and lack of the skill in dancing and rustiness did not exactly soothe her, or make her feel any better, at that.

"Laugh all you want," she told him bitterly. "But just know that if you had remained my date with romantic potential, I'd have dumped you at this particular moment."

Connor sobered little seconds later, his blue eyes dancing with merriment. "It's nothing to be ashamed of," he told her, grabbing her hand in a friendly and comforting fashion. "Honestly."

"Well, I know that," she pretended to snap at him. "I'm just a bit… rusty, that's all. I know how to dance. I knew how to dance well, as a matter of fact. I just forgot, is all."

He was smiling very widely. She knew this was because he was taking joy in her pain. She would've called him a prick if he weren't so damn nice. "You're a very charming girl. I'm certain you'll remember once you step out there. It's easy."

"If only I knew how to distinguish your truth and your lies," she remarked.

"Can you really forget how to dance?" he wondered aloud.

"Oh, shut up."

"Come on, one dance, and I'll prove to you that it's impossible to forget how to dance. You never know. Maybe you're like… that bloke, Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance."

"All right then," she thoughtfully said. "One dance. But no tap-dancing. That's what Michael Flatley did." She recalled Draco actually calling him a freak of nature. She had reckoned it was because he was jealous. Because, really, who wouldn't be? His legs had a life of their own!

But as she absentmindedly looked up, something caught her eye behind him. She felt her heart stop abruptly as she immediately recognized the person who had snatched her attention. Hermione suddenly felt as if she couldn't breathe.

His unnaturally pale skin and his unusually bright, silver-blond hair instantly stole her eyes in his direction and kept them fixated there. It was no surprise to her, as she watched him, that he was clothed entirely in dark attire. That mere fact made him even much easier to seek out. In fact, it almost made him glow. Like some God – except she knew that he really wasn't.

Amidst the ocean of glamorous, sophisticated clothes, expensive sparkling garb, and dramatic dress robes, she had known very well that he'd rightly fit in. And somehow, as she thought further on it, tremors scraped at her skin. Her mind lingered on the thought and she became more aware, more paranoid, more self-conscious. She could smell the wicked stench of wealth in the atmosphere of hearty laughter, expensive material, and clinking, crystal wine glasses. And suddenly, she felt her happiness drain away as the cold punch of realization hit her, abruptly making her grasp where she was, exactly.

She was surrounded by people just like Draco. Wealthy, extravagant, special, classy. They considered and demanded only the finest things. For some odd reason, her understanding grabbed her in a vice-grip of shame and unworthiness. And what resulted from those sudden feelings stirring inside her was slight anger. She was angry at their rich, effortless lives, at Draco Malfoy who could get anything he wanted, and at the world who seemed intent on showing her all that she was missing.

But, odd thing was, if he could have anything in the world… why did he want her? Was it merely because he knew he couldn't?

Hermione abruptly became aware of the breath she'd been holding since she'd noticed his presence in the room as Connor's voice broke into her barricaded and intense thoughts.

"Hermione, are you feeling all right? You seem tense."

"I'm fine," she said, dragging out a long breath, her heart diving into a full-fledged seizure. She turned to him, but she could feel her hands start to break out in cold sweat. "But I think I'm in need of some water," she told him, her moist tongue trying to cure the aridity attacking the interior of her mouth and throat.

"Great," he said, getting up, letting go of her hand. "I'll go get us refreshments. Excuse me."

When he was gone, Hermione blinked furiously, squeezing down hard on her eyelids, telling her to get a grip on herself. She started to wring her hands underneath her table, her fingers feeling foreign and frosty. Her heart's fast and thunderous rhythm pounded in her ears.

'_Good heavens, get a hold of yourself,_' she thought to herself, trying to make her body listen and cooperate. _'Don't let it seem as if he's affected you so much. For Merlin's sake, he's all the way across the room! Don't be an idiot._' But Hermione frowned at herself, half of her mind still lingering on Draco, only just realizing that most of her personal and mental pep talks usually involved some put-downs or name-calling directed right at herself.

'_Oh Merlin,'_ she groaned, sighing again. _'I'm mad. I'm bloody mad.'_

But though she resisted the impulse to look up and seek him out once again, she looked up, and just as soon as she did, their eyes locked.

A familiar wave of shivers and warmth spread through her, tugging, pulling, thriving. She felt her heart plummet to the pit of her stomach and then rise again at a rapid pace like a spastic tennis ball, trembling and violently throbbing with expectation, fear, and longing. The captivating depth of his eyes caused her breath to hitch in her throat, as the whole world seemed to stop before her eyes – a _ridiculous_ cliché, but she couldn't really think of anything else particularly clever when all she felt like doing was grabbing the salad fork right beside her and stabbing it right into her chest, where her heart was, doing some freaky dance. Just to shut it up. Because it was _annoying_ her.

She absentmindedly wondered how such a wicked and wanky boy could have such beautiful eyes. It was so unfair she almost wanted to grab him by the shoulders and ask him why he had to born so stunning but so much like a bastard.

Hermione clenched her fists, as she slowly started to get up. She wasn't aware of her actions, no. She was being reckless. She was following her heart. Taking a bloody risk, just like what her mother had said.

But as she started towards him, her heart's deafening roar in her ears, she was held back. She felt something warm grab her elbow as she was pulled back in shock.

Startled, Hermione looked behind her, only to see Connor holding their drinks. She felt disappointment inside her, but gave him a polite smile as he took his seat and let go of her.

"Are you looking for someone?" he asked her, as she turned her attention back to Draco, her eyes frantically searching for him again. But the loud noise of the room had returned and boomed ruthlessly in her ears, the atmosphere brutally clashing with her yearning to find him again, and her eyes could not seek him out. The current of their fast-paced, chaotic world had caught up with them and swept him away. He was lost amidst the sea of wealth and magical blood.

"No," she said, trying to cover up the disappointment in her voice. She turned back to him, hesitantly, and pasted up a smile.

Connor nodded, smiling. "Well, come on then. Take a seat. I thought you were thirsty."

oooo

Draco watched them with dark, frosty eyes. He sipped his wine continuously (and not in the "classy" way he had been taught by his father, who had been somewhat a wine connoisseur – but also demented and crazy), his mouth incessantly thirsting for more, but never once taking his eyes off of her. Here he was, just four tables away from her, alone at a table with only the glasses and glasses of wine to accompany him. He didn't know how many he'd had. Countless, he guessed. But he knew it would never be enough. He could've drunk until his whole body was intoxicated and sick, and the thought of her would still torture the living shit out of him. Her mere presence and the fact that he was just within eyeshot of her made it all worse. Your entire family dying on your birthday sort of worse. Alanis Morrisette's "Ironic" sort of worse – a song that was not really about irony, but how to make somebody extremely sad and want to kill themselves, if they had not already been killed in a plane crash. That kind.

He was so damn jealous it was… _really_ annoying.

He had watched them laugh and talk. Merlin's breeches_, he_ wanted to be the one who made her laugh, _he_ wanted to be the one who could just sit close and watch her, and listen to her, and even maybe insult her to the point where she would just tell him outright she was going to seriously injure him, and he cursed himself for it. It was not right for him to be feeling any of this, any of it at all, and, worse, he had let her know. What was she doing now? Flirting with some canary-yellow-wearing behemoth.

No matter how much he tried to understand her, he couldn't. Nothing else seemed as impossible as it was to try to comprehend the strange, twisted mechanisms of her Muggle-born, Gryffindor mind. Because you know what? She was playing with him. She was tormenting him on purpose. He just knew it. Driving him mad with jealousy, infuriating him by smiling that _damned_ smile and laughing with her stupid partner. And she hadn't even uttered a single word to him the whole time they had been here! Not even a, "Will you move out of the way, Malfoy?" when he had blocked her way to the refreshments, or even a "Stop acting like an arrogant arse." Nothing. Not a single word. Zilch, nada, nil.

Why was she refusing to speak to him now when he actually did want her to talk to him? Why had she just chosen to put up her little silent mime act now and ignored all of the other times he had asked her to shut up? Was this a conspiracy? _Was it?_

Also, he just couldn't take being – should he ever dare think it – in love with a girl who was within an arm's reach one second, and then unreachable the next. It aggravated him, confused him, angered him more than anything – even more than his sardonic father did. The wretch had made him question everything he was, everything that he had thought he had wanted. She had made him become careless and so quick to lose himself and his logic when it came to thinking about her, kissing her, being with her. She had wrecked him and his whole being. Not even he deserved this sort of sadistic, morbid torture!

'_Damn that woman!' _he cursed, wanting to scream it at her face. He had found yet another reason to hate and condemn the Gryffindor House. Forget teepeeing their common room with loo paper. He was going to… well, he couldn't think of it right now, but he was going to do something really _bad_.

The waiter filled Draco another glass, and he gulped it down, trying to refresh a throat that was cursed and rough. But the bothersome dryness of his throat could never be quenched with water, pumpkin juice, or even wine. But he knew what would—and she was untouchable.

And the worst part was, he was still sober.

He was trying to get himself drunk. Because, he figured, drunks either ate themselves in their own self-pity, or they pushed everything away and, for that one night, had not a care in the world. He wanted either. He just wanted to escape the night without the vicious anger and pain that came with thinking of her. It seemed impossible, but when the body and mind was poisoned with alcohol, he knew that everything would seem possible then. And shiny. And really, really unstable.

Just then, Draco's narrowed gaze was pulled away from her as the room suddenly quieted and a loud voice echoed through the room. It was the voice of their headmaster, thunderous and clear.

"Thank you," he heard him say, as Draco took another sip. Despite his vast intake of the wine, his eyes were still as sharp and quick as ever, not even the least bit bleary or hazy.

Draco looked down at his glass and began to question the wine. It was true it took a lot for him to be truly drunk out of his wits, but the glasses seemed to have no impact on him at all. Was _everything_ in this school completely faulty?

Draco colorfully cursed under his breath.

"First, I'd like to take the opportunity to say to each and everyone of you: Welcome to Hogwarts. It is a true and genuine privilege and pleasure to have all of you here this evening, along with the very talented Emily Vanderborough."

Applause rang throughout the hall at the mention of her name as Draco merely scowled. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling his long fingers emit a faint chill.

"I realize I mustn't take anymore of your time. I am here to introduce our main event of this evening. So here, I present to you, without further ado, is Emily Vanderborough." They produced more applause, as the lighting slightly dimmed. His eyes flickered to Hermione and her date, as he saw their heads turned to the front, as well.

God, how he wanted to wring both their necks.

The curtain was drawn back, gracefully slow and tauntingly, leisurely revealing a stunning girl in deep azure dress robes, whom Draco guessed to be somewhere in her mid-twenties. She was staring straight into the audience, and Draco felt an odd sensation in the depths of his black heart as her gaze flickered and landed on his. Her eyes were a pale blue, an icy blue, penetrating through him and making his entire body tense. He clenched his jaw in suspense as she looked away and the organ begun its harmony. Its metallic and strong sound filled the room and sent sharp tingles through his veins.

Her voice was soft and haunting as she started to sing. Her words struck him like a traitorous sword through the heart, as suddenly he couldn't look away. The music filled his ears, and he thought that if he focused just enough – he could feel it sting his soul.

If he even had one.

"_In the winter of our hearts and our minds… Nothing will and ever comply with these cruel and jealous desires of mine… Because time has finally run out for us all, time has finally burned its hands and showered them down towards us… Thank heaven there's a hell… we'll all be burned beyond such recognition." _

Suddenly, Draco's eyes tore away from her and somehow, some way found its way back to Hermione, her words filling his heart like a lingering nursery rhyme.

And as surprising as surprise was, her head was turned in his direction. It was like one of those ideal moments in every romance story – when there was something that just reminded a person of that significant person, and vice versa. It was… bizarre. Who thought of these things, really? Who _timed_ them? When a person would look over and the other person would be looking over at them too? Or was it one of those gut feelings?

Their eyes steadily locked on each other's, and he hoped that she could see just how angry he was with her at the moment, but he felt as if the ground beneath him could start to crumble away and nothing in the world could get him to look away. It was a treacherous feeling.

"_Clenching fists and poets' tears… will flood this Earth and will drown us in our sins, like baptism undeserving of another chance to live out the full capabilities of this scornful heart… Time, time is not a friend... Time will not mend… Time cannot carry out what is meant… So, now, at the brink of our Armageddon, I shall stand on the ridge of this lake of fire… And I will look for you in the sea of faces… to exchange my life for yours…" _

Slowly, one by one, pairs started to get up and dance. Arms delicately wound around bodies, eyes shut, hearts and feelings in the entrancing, slow-paced melody. They moved slowly and gracefully, fulfilling their want for peace with the one they longed and yearned for the most.

It was all horribly romantic and it's-so-sweet-it-makes-me-want-to-puke, but the only thing Draco could do to stop it all was to start a fire – that would be extinguished in a split-second, prior to the continuing of the dance. It was a lose-lose situation. But she looked away from him as she was offered a dance. Draco watched on, his eyes suddenly churning with bitter hatred, rage and jealousy. He felt a sudden blow to his chest. She looked back at him, her brown eyes pleading at his, before she reluctantly accepted. She stood slowly, her hand in his, and they made their way to the dance floor.

Draco gnashed his teeth as she wrapped her arms around him, and his arms leisurely encircled at her waist. He was mad with awful envy and he wanted nothing but to turn away to save himself from the sick PDA, but damned that he was, he found that he couldn't. He was too preoccupied with imagining how Hufflepuff would look without arms, legs, and his head.

He wanted to run over to them and pull her away from him. He wanted to shout at her and tell her that she could be with no other man if she could not be with him.

"_Your warm heart to melt this icicle of a heart… Your kind eyes to break away the barrier of ice in mine… Your healing hands to erase these scars that mar and break my skin… I am standing here at the brink of Armageddon, searching for your familiar face… But impatience has never been a friend, never been a desire… Such cruelty haunts me when I lose every second and discover that you're not here…"_

Fed up and livid, he got up abruptly and stormed out of the hall without another glance.

Hermione's eyes followed after him longingly as she felt her heart thrash about viciously, calling out to him.

'_Go after him,_' a shriek filled her mind and ears. _'Run after him, you fool! Don't let him get away!'_

And without a second thought, Hermione untangled herself from Connor, a dark and determined look in her eyes. She felt like one of those girls in the cinemas. Running after somebody. And she always remembered her heart beginning to beat hard with anticipation right at those moments, but right now could not compare to sitting in the seat of those theatres. _She_ was going to be the one doing all the running this time. Strange, because she'd never planned this. She'd never expected in her life that she would be the one who has to run after the boy. In fact, it was slightly unfair. She wasn't even a good runner. And she was in a dress.

"What is it?" he asked her worriedly.

"I…" Hermione faltered, as her eyes flickered towards the door. "I'm sorry, Connor. I've got to go. I've got to speak with someone. Thank you for everything. Really. You're so nice." Without another explanation, she hurried away from him, following Draco's path.

"_So when you've finally made up your fickle, ever-changing mind… make your way down to the boiling heat and bleeding sky… Look for me and reach for my hand… And I'll let you know that I'm doing all I can…"_

oooo

Hermione ran out of the hall, the beautiful wailing music getting more and more indistinct as her heart roared in her ears. Her heartbeats pounded inside her furiously, like a ticking bomb nearing its destruction.

Her heart convulsed when she saw him. His back was to her, and he was walking at an infuriated, rapid pace.

She ran faster. Her side was shooting with pain.

She hated running.

Suddenly, she stopped, just a good distance away from him.

"Malfoy!" she called out, his name ricocheting throughout the poorly lit and bare passageway. She watched as he froze in his step. She walked on, nearing him, breathing raggedly. "Malfoy," she said again, in a quieter tone.

Her voice rang in his ears, sending bitter yet scorching shivers to claw up and down his flesh. His heart swelled with a painful and lethal mixture of anger, hate, and longing. He ground his teeth, his fists clenched so tight he could feel his nails biting into the flesh of his palm. His breathing was ragged and heavy, his chest and lungs filled with toxic heat.

"Please," she said, as she stopped, five feet away from him. Her tone was beseeching and desperate. She'd never known she'd ever talk to him in that way. "Please look at me."

Draco slowly turned around, and she felt a painful twinge in her chest when she saw his harsh and cold gaze directed right at her. There were sharp icicles in his eyes that stabbed right at her purple, bruised heart.

"I don't know what's happened these past few months," she confessed to him, heavily but desperately. "But it isn't right. It isn't right at all. But I've got feelings for you. And – and I know you've got them for me." She swallowed hard, trying to rid of the dryness of her throat, very well aware that it was his presence that caused it. But despite the violent motion inside of her stomach that was making it act like a squeegee sponge, the insufferable ringing inside of her ears, and the chalky and scratchy interior of her shrinking esophagus, she needed to tell him. She needed to tell him the truth. Because maybe she felt like she owed it to him – or that she just needed to, for the sake of herself.

She took a step closer, his glacial eyes still locked on hers.

It was so hard to say what she had to say when it was very clear to her that he hated her. I mean, the look he was sending her right now was a very clear indication of that.

But she did. Because it was a risk. And she was a risk-taking broad. Now.

"I know it isn't easy. I mean, I've tried it myself. To _hate_ you for the conceited bastard that you are. But I can't. I… I just can't." Her brown eyes were deep with sorrow and hope, earnestly searching and begging him. "Not like before, anyway," she said, the long drawn out silence between them sinking its teeth into her and tearing her apart with a vengeance. She felt like a steak dinner in the face of Crabbe and Goyle. She sighed. "Say something."

"Fine," he suddenly hissed, and his callous tone struck her like a stake through the heart. He stormed towards her until he was just an inch away. "Listen here, _you're_ the one who's keeping us apart, Granger," he told her, angrily. "You're the one who's complicated things so it would be harder for us. You pull me in one minute, telling me you want this, and then you push me away and tell me the complete opposite the next! Is this just a _game _to you, Granger? Is it? Is that what you're trying to do to me? _Fuck_ with my head so you and the rest of the Holy Trio can laugh about it when you go back and tell them what you've done?" he shouted, unable to control his anger.

"No!" she said, her voice rising, upset by his accusation. Again, she wasn't one to _ever_ use people. What was _up_ with that? "_No!_ It isn't a game to me! It never was!"

"_Shut up_, Granger!" he yelled, his face etched with dark and dangerous rage. "_Shut up!_ Stop acting so innocent! You're _not_! You _knew _how I felt about you! You _knew_! And then you _brought_ that Hufflepuff bastard to the Show _without_ even considering how—"

"Not everything has to be about you, Draco!" she screamed at him, infuriated that he was pinpointing it all on her. Fantastic how this was turning out. It was like a dream come true. "I brought him as a _friend_! A _friend_!"

"I don't _care_!" he shouted. He was breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring in all of his fury. He was like a handsome, albino bull ready to gore a poor martyr.

Unfortunately, the martyr was her.

"That day in Hogsmeade, I thought it would make it get through your thick little head how I felt about you. How madly_ jealous _I was. But no, you insist on _toying_ with me, like I'm some _fuckwit_ you can tear apart and then stitch back up."

Hermione was panting wildly, her fists clenching even tighter, trying to calm herself. The fire in her eyes rivaled Draco's. She kind of wanted to punch him – he was accusing her of things she'd never done, or once thought. She wanted to make him understand by laying one on good on him. A punch. "I _wasn't_ toying with you," she told him through her teeth. Her rage was feeding off of his cold words. "I didn't think it would matter."

Draco shook his head. "Like _hell_!" he vehemently spat. "Do you _really_ expect me to believe that?" Surprisingly, he then started to chuckle wickedly and derisively. "Oh, you fooled me, Granger, you can bet your life you did. I don't think I give you much credit – but I'll tell you now. You got me, Granger. You got me _good_. I've underestimated you all this time, but I've learned my lesson." He licked his lips, his face still distorted into a glower. "But now I want you to _leave_ me _alone_. I don't care what you have to do. Lock yourself up. _Fuck_ Weasley or Potter. I don't _care_ anymore. You've _had_ your fun."

"_Stop_," she told him, livid at what he had just said. "Would you just _listen_ to me, Malfoy? Can't you just push away all your uneducated assumptions, pride, and _pure_ blood and _listen_ to what I have to say?"

"_No_!" he said. "I've heard enough, Granger – I thought I made that _clear_! Now _leave_ me the fuck _alone_!"

He started to walk away, but Hermione, also furious and steaming from anger, ran over to him and grabbed his arm, twisting him around to face her. Their faces were just an inch apart. She could feel his hot, ragged breaths against her skin.

"Don't you _dare_ walk away from me," she hissed.

Damn straight.

"You can't tell me what to do," he snarled. "So _let_ go. Let go of my arm, or you can be certain I will _make_ you."

"Just _listen_ to me, Malfoy! Just _listen_! That's _all_ I'm asking for!" she screamed.

"Whatever you say will not affect any of this," he coldly informed her with such a cutting edge to his words. "So I suggest you save your breath and just leave. Your _date_ is waiting for you inside," he spat.

"What do you suggest we could have done, Malfoy?" she furiously asked him. Her rage was getting the best of her. Her intention of telling him she wanted to be with him was now lost amongst the bitter feelings of hatred and misunderstanding boiling inside of her. He was making it far too difficult for her to come clean and do what she had followed him to do. Her doubts now overshadowed her feelings; each time darkening with every blow his words threw at her. He was proving them right. That maybe he _wasn't_ worth this at all and that she'd been kidding herself all this time.

"Go about _parading_ it to the whole world? Wouldn't that have _hurt_ your reputation?"

"Is it really my reputation you're worried about?" he growled. "Or is it _yours_? Because it seems to me it's yours you're worried about!"

"What exactly are you suggesting?"

"I'm saying I've been right here all along, Granger. All _along_. _Waiting_ for you, like some pathetic fool. Well, I'm _done_ waiting, Granger," he hissed venomously, violently jerking his arm away from her. "And to believe that I actually _felt_ something for you!" he exclaimed mockingly and as if it was a dastardly matter. "Not _hate_, _not_ revulsion, or disgust. No, I _couldn't_ hate you. I tried; I tried as _best_ as I could. I couldn't. There could've been _potential_, Granger, don't you understand that?"

Hermione was speechless at his words.

'_Potential,'_ her mind repeated, dumbfounded and in a daze. _'Potential.'_

The terrible silence echoed through the corridor, and his words mercilessly rang in her ears, crushing her heart. She looked away, her eyes suddenly burning and her soul frozen from their vindictive exchange.

"Potential," she suddenly said with fragility, as if the word was foreign. The word trembled from her mouth. Her anger miraculously but slowly vanished, and she was left with the aftertaste that was her misery and desolateness. Her guilt and resentment ripped her flesh apart like a pack of hungry, blind beasts in the safari. She felt foolish now. Like she'd jumped off a plane and she was naked – had no parachute, or anything. It was like one of those moments when you go out and it starts raining really hard and you've got no coat. So you end up getting soaked, and getting really sick. And then you have to miss work. And then you get sacked. One of those moments when a simple decision could have changed everything.

She looked up at him as she continued, a thorn prickling her throat. "Between a Slytherin Prince and a Gryffindor Mudblood." She let out a small sigh, stepping back, as she raised her hand and wiped away her tears of frustration with the back of her hand. She could feel his eyes on her, and she cursed herself for letting him see her cry. But what could she do? What could one do to stop an unwanted onflow of tears? Bloody poke her eyes out? That would make her cry even more!

"I can't believe it," she laughed, even though it was derived not from humor, but bitterness. "Potential. Between _us_. You're right. We're fools. Grade A fools."

She wanted to scream it. "Fools!" she would scream, like a madman. "Fools!"

But, for some reason, her remark startled him.

He looked at her with a bemused expression on his face and corrugated brows, his anger slowly and oddly becoming something of the past.

"I suppose we were both… sightless," she told him, meeting his eyes again. He was only an inch away from her, and though it was obvious to her that his words had just slipped from his mouth in haste anger, her heart pulsed with immeasurable pain. "Completely reckless, careless of our actions. You're right." She sighed, a tender aching within her lungs. "This is what they call hormones, that's all it is. We don't need this, this-this ambiguity, this frustration. We could've tried, but there wouldn't be any use. There's no chance in heaven or hell we would've succeeded."

So this was what a real broken heart felt like. She wished she'd never felt it.

There was silence.

"I agree," he replied, though there was an aggressive squirming inside his heart that told him otherwise. "It's something called impossibility."

She looked sadly into his eyes. There was finality about this. Maybe it was what she needed.

"But… I… I want to tell you, as stupid and idiotic as it is… that I came after you because I wanted to tell you that I was willing to try. Even with the foretelling of doom." And then there was a smile on her face, though he could tell it was only from the irony of their circumstance. He could tell she would've put a sign that said DAFT AND SENSELESS, STAY AWAY on herself by the way she was looking. Her mouth was quirked down, like she was ashamed of herself. Usually, he'd be thrilled. Granger hating herself? He would've shit a brick!

A happy brick, at that. A content, happy brick.

But there was no brick to be found.

Instead, Draco stared at her. He found it hard to believe the words she had just said.

He had not expected this – any of this – for how could he? He was a Malfoy. Proposing the idea of a relationship with and to a Mudblood, let alone doing it with a heartfelt desire and want was ridiculously forbidden and tread upon by shoes covered in dragon shit. It was not supposed to happen – not now, not ever. It was an unwritten law.

He did not know what to do. In all the irony, he still had a chance. But, the problem was, did he want it? Was he to refuse it, or take it? He didn't know what was best for any of them. If he let her go now, would he regret it for the oncoming tormenting days of his hellish life? If he told her that he still held those burdening feelings for her, despite his anger and his curses fired at her through his prickly mouth, would he find himself living a better life? Did he even _want_ a better life?

He knew what his father would do. And he had told himself that he would never do what Lucius would command him to do.

Seeing that he was not going to reply, she turned away.

"Wait," he called out, hesitantly.

Oh, boy, was he ever going to be able to live this down? He could already see himself burning in the fiery lakes of hell.

She froze in her step, but she didn't turn around. Her body was tense and stiff.

He felt as if there were little critters and caterpillars crawling around in his stomach and mouth. It was not the most pleasant feeling, and while he could easily escape from all this by telling her one single word, "Go," there was a determination and desperation inside him that would not stand to be ignored.

Here it was. The big gesture.

Slashing the Malfoy name.

"Granger… Hermione," he then mended firmly. "We're different. Completely different. We clearly live in different worlds. I'm wicked; you're moralistic and teeth-grittingly annoying. I know you understand all this." He paused, waiting for her to turn around.

Luckily, she did.

Her eyes met his, hers filled with question.

He stepped closer to her, closing the space between them.

"But… understanding all that doesn't make it any easier, does it?" he asked her.

She shook her head in response. "What are you trying to say?" she finally inquired. "Because you shouted at me and called me every name in the book, and now I don't have a clue what you're trying to do. I was doing what you said. Going back to… Connor. I'm confused, Malfoy. You said that this was over."

"Well, there are some things we can't help, all right?" he snapped, annoyed by her questioning of him. "I'm trying to say that despite the fact that I did call you every insult there is, maybe there is, still. Potential. Maybe."

It sounded idiotic.

Hermione's heart softened, but she stiffened as the stench of alcohol and wine pervaded her nose. "You're drunk," she told him, feeling a darker cloud hover above her. She knew what this meant. She'd known the affect alcohol had on people. She'd witnessed it before. "You don't know what you're saying at all." She tried to step away. Wasted blokes were not in her most favorite people. She'd learned a thing or two from her cousins. Next thing she knew, he would be asking her for Harry's address so they could be pen pals and then perhaps vomiting all over her new dress robes.

"You're wrong," he said sternly, as he grasped her arm. But this time, she was surprised that his grip was not tight, merely firm, as if he wanted to make sure she wouldn't turn away from him. His dark silver eyes bore into her, seizing her heart in its grasp. "I _know_ what I'm saying. I do," he firmly said.

Hermione stayed quiet, her eyes flickering as she searched his dim, steely eyes.

Then he said something strange and completely unexpected. He himself wasn't even sure why he said it. "No one said we had to succeed," he told her.

"Well, then, there's no use, is there?" she asked him, heat exuding from his fingertips to her arm. She felt ripples of warmth erupt from his touch, and her heart cried for him in a yearning wail. Somehow, his gentleness towards her now gave her hope, though she still wanted to shout at him. Yelling at her and insulting her and then taking a one hundred eighty degree turn? It was almost unspeakable.

"Don't be daft," he harshly told her, being that he still seemed quite annoyed. He had never met a girl who questioned and was skeptical about his affections before – maybe it was because they weren't aware he was capable of affection. But it made him feel uncomfortable, yet so certain about what he felt than ever before. Her defiance angered him, but it fueled him. He wanted so badly to let her see that he actually knew what he was doing, even though he slightly did not.

But he had never been a master of words in a romantic sense. Yes, he wooed girls, sometimes even without words or intentionally, but never like this. Never in his life like this.

Hermione heard the roaring from inside her chest, feeling her heart throb loudly and forcefully at his words.

"Live outside your box, will you? Fairytales are dead and gone. Not everything has a happy ending," he severely told her. "Those are scarce in both the wizarding world and Muggle world. I know that. But it isn't about that. It's about trying. If anyone should know about this more than anything else, it's you, Granger. Don't you understand? It's about effort. Because that's what makes it work, even if it's ill fated, or doomed. Effort."

Hermione stayed silent, contemplating his words. There was doubt in her heart, but his mysterious orbs exclaimed the truth. Even though he was a prick, he was right. The bastard was right. Oh, and how her heart rejoiced.

"This is going to ruin us," she tried to steadily tell him, but instead told him in a shaky whisper, her words quivering. His hand had loosened and was now slowly traveling up her arm, warming her body with every touch. "Wait, hold on a minute. Let's just think about this. I mean, maybe we shouldn't be so—"

"Don't be hardheaded," he snapped. "That'll only happen if we allow it to. And – we're not idiots, are we, Granger?"

Hermione shook her head, another hurdle of doubts hurtling her way. She pleaded for them to go away and leave her be, to leave her the privilege of basking in the moment of truth and honesty, but they resisted, and she was left to confront them to him. '_If only,'_ she thought, _'he would act his age'_.

"Then maybe we should stop _acting_ like idiots! No, you just don't understand. It's not just about effort; it's about what we have and if we want to risk it. Everything is not as easy as you—"

Draco was becoming even more frustrated. "Would you _stop_ talking? Please, just shut up for a moment!"

"—think! Do you understand what we're going to be doing? We're going to be ruining, destroying everything! Everything we've worked for and—"

Suddenly, Draco leaned in and kissed her, tired of listening to her talk and object. "I don't care," he said between passionate kisses, and she instantly let his lips carry her words away.

Unable to resist, she responded, her hands gradually finding their way into his hair. The taste of wine along with the distinct sweetness and heat of his mouth drifted all of her doubts and worries away. And as she sighed contently into his mouth, feeling his strong arms wrap firmly around her, the contour of his body fitting perfectly with hers, it didn't matter.

Because they fit.

He pulled back, and she discovered a slight and smug, victorious smirk on his face. His arms had tangled themselves around her waist, holding her closely to him.

"See, if you'd refuse the urge to run your mouth so much, Granger, all of our problems would be fixed," he told her.

"Except your obnoxiously large ego," she retorted.

He scrutinized her comment. "I fail to recognize what you're talking about. But, however, I did notice an empty broom closet on our way over here…"

But, little did they know that there was a figure lurking at the turn of the hall, right beside the door.

Albus Dumbledore shook his head, his blue eyes twinkling with a smile on his face.

"Ah, young love," he happily said to himself.

Who'd have guessed he'd find them professing their feelings to one another whilst only trying to cure their drunken doorman who'd fainted?

"Come on, Vile Victor," Dumbledore said, making his way back to the party, as the grumpy ghost sleepily followed.

Certainly not him.

**A/N:** Please review!


	26. Kiss Me, Then You'll Know

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns HP.

**Kiss Me, Then You'll Know**

Hermione awoke with a smile on her face as she snuggled beneath her heavy covers. She shifted her legs underneath, heat radiating from her warmed body. She closed her eyes before opening them again, feeling her heart delight in the day that was to come.

She let out a yawn as she lay in her bed, contemplating just for a minute. She played back last night's events in her mind and she couldn't help but let out a pleased breath of air as it all came back to her. Her heart pulsated with joy and bliss; feeling as if the days of spring had just finally arrived and melted away the bleak winter of her mind. It was a completely different and fresh feeling for her, and oh, how she loved it so.

She felt as if she could sing out with such gladness and jubilation until her lungs would collapse from weariness and strain, or her throat became painfully sore and rough. And she didn't even sing all that pleasant. But she knew that even if that should happen to her poor lungs and throat, she would continue on singing, praising fate and whomever it was watching down on her for giving her such lucky circumstances. What else would she use her voice for, anyway? Scolding Ron was the only instance she'd use it.

Hermione twisted free from her covers, slightly shivering, her radiant smile still in place. She made her way to her window and happily pushed back the curtain that hid the outside grounds of Hogwarts from her view. She looked out, and, for the first time of her life, she was wholly and entirely content, in completely high spirits. She'd never felt her heart croon in such glad and thrilled melodies.

It was overwhelming. It felt strange feeling so happy. She didn't think she'd felt this way before, and to be completely honest, it frightened her a bit.

She was – she dared to say – ridiculously giddy.

What Hermione saw from her place made her silly, ridiculous grin stretch even wider. This morning was going to be a stunning and gorgeous start of a new day, if her opening feeling about today had not already been much of a hint. The grass that covered the grounds was lush and green and the sky was painted a bright and beautiful blue with not a cloud in sight.

She raised her hand and unlocked her window, slowly pushing it back. The fresh morning breeze entered her room.

Hermione sighed, inhaling the clean and refreshing scent, a relaxed expression drawn out on her face. It smelled of a new start, a new beginning, a new opportunity. The cool invigorating aroma of the world caressed her skin and stimulated her senses, awakening each and every part and nerve of her body. It cleared her head of any weighing doubt or anxiety, as she slowly opened her eyes and savored her position and outlook of the world.

But as her gaze wandered the view of Hogwarts from her window, a flash of shock and realization bolted through her mind.

She froze, her body tense and the expression on her face would have fallen off if she weren't dumb with surprise.

She remembered that he had undoubtedly drunk an immense amount of wine last night. She had smelled the strong odor of alcohol in his breath during their encounter in the corridor, and she had been quite sure that the fact that he had so willingly intoxicated himself during the Showcase had affected his mind and mouth. She also remembered that she had questioned him the moment the stench had reached her nose, but he had refused and told her that he knew what he was doing, what he was saying.

It hadn't seemed like the wine had influenced him at all – he had not been swaggering like an old drunk, and he hadn't been slurring out words to her like some madman who'd tried drinking away all of his problems in a dirty, seedy pub. He'd been the same Draco Malfoy with the same temper, same drawl, and same control of his lean body. But the thing that she feared most was that the wine had muddled with his brain (unnoticeably to her) and that he hadn't meant to say all the things he did. Or, even worse: that he wouldn't remember what had happened and what they had said to each other last night.

She didn't know if she could handle the fact that they were to start all over again. Her heart had all been set last evening. She didn't even know that – if he, in fact, didn't remember – if he would be as open-minded as before. Or if he still wanted to try on a relationship, or if he still had feelings for her…

Hermione's face drained of its once radiant color.

Suddenly, Hermione reached for her window and closed it abruptly. She needn't think twice about this matter. Her motions were quick and haste, her heart beating furiously in her chest in impatience, as she turned her wrist in one fluid motion and locked it. She drew the curtain rapidly before running out of her room, not paying any mind to how she looked or if she had rightly closed the door behind her in all of her hurry.

She crossed the common room, her footsteps light and quick as she halted in front of his door and rapped her knuckles loudly on its wooden surface. She lowered her hand, breathing somewhat raggedly, waiting for a reply.

'_No matter,'_ she hastily thought to herself. '_If he doesn't remember, I'll simply hex him. He should remember then.'_ Then she remembered her wand was still on her dresser top. '_Damn.'_

Luckily, he answered just as she was about to knock once more.

"Malfoy," she breathed, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of him. Her heart's rhythm quickened its pace, racing furiously.

His deep gray eyes were in its cool and composed state as the corners of his mouth easily quirked into a smirk. His hair was slightly tousled, but she could tell he had already been awake before she had almost knocked the hell out of his door.

"Granger," he acknowledged her. "Awake already?"

"Are you feeling all right?" she asked him impatiently, intently searching his non-responsive eyes beneath his white-blond hair. "Last night, you were drinking a ridiculously vast amount of wine, and I just— do you remember anything?" she asked, slightly panicking. "Do you remember what happened? Anything at all?"

Draco wanted to laugh, but he refrained himself from doing so, noticing the way her words were hurried in panic and slight threat. He had been well taught on how to hide his emotions, but if he hadn't been, he certainly knew that once she had laid her eyes on him, she would've changed her mind about asking him these silly questions.

Seeing her at his doorstep, albeit the fact that she was sweating in worry about a small and absurd matter, made the start of his day the best it could possibly turn out to be.

He wondered if he should play along; cause her to worry just a tad bit more. There was no denying that he liked to see her brown eyes flicker nervously with panic and anxiety. It amused him a ridiculously large amount, watching her fret about whether they were officially together or if they were not. She'd always been something of a Worry Wart.

He'd have gone the extra mile, but she would have hexed him. Or slapped him, since it was apparent to him that – clad only in her tiny pajamas – she was not holding it and there was no place to hide a pointy, long stick inside what she was wearing.

"Malfoy?" she asked again, seeing that he was not responding. "Do you remember anything that happened at all last night? The Talent Showcase? Connor? The hallway?"

'_A-hah!'_ he suddenly said inside his conscience. He thought of something. Hopefully she would not slap him for it.

Now, what he was going to do was not a very Draco thing to do. He would have pissed himself before actually saying it. But it was very early in the morning and he'd almost been sleep-deprived because of those stupid owls his mother sent him.

Therefore, he could not be held responsible for his actions.

His smirk widened, as he stepped closer to her. He leaned his face towards her, and she stiffened in surprise from his actions. He slipped an arm around her, nuzzling the flesh of her neck with his nose; inhaling her scent that still made his heart want to drown itself in the blood it pumped and his thoughts cluster in an indistinct, hazy cloud. Her soft, warm body molded against his arm that encircled her waist, and he felt his heart pounding viciously in his chest. He licked his lips, his devilish smile still in place.

He was mad. _Out_ of his mind.

Yet, he was curious at how she would react.

"Kiss me," he whispered to her. "Then you'll know."

What a line.

If that was romantic, that's the first and last romantic thing he'd ever do. Ever. He was not romantic, not born with romantic instincts or urges or skills. He was a self-righteous prick. Self-righteous pricks were not romantic. Rude, yes, but never romantic.

Hermione smiled, enjoying the feel of being near him again. Being this close to him without fighting the urge of slapping him felt different. Oddly, it felt somewhat better.

She looked up at him with sparkling and amused eyes.

"Malfoy," she told him. "If you feed me that line again, I'm going to assume you're one step closer to the loony bin."

Draco, this time, couldn't keep back his smirk.

"So you do like me for more than my gorgeous looks."

"I wouldn't push it."

Draco rolled his eyes. "As a matter of fact, Granger, I remember. I'm charmed by the massive and unnatural amount of sweat you let out from worrying on the matter. Really. Charmed."

"Oh, shut up," she told him, but still so ridiculously giddy that even she felt ashamed of it. What about all the other unfortunate people out in the world? What about the starving children in Ethiopia that couldn't be happy, on account of the fact that they were lethally hungry? What about the house-elves?

Being so happy made her guilty.

And remembering that whole hour they spent inside a broom closet made her guilty, as well. Maybe she had been drunk silly, too. Being shoved into a broom closet with broom handles jabbing into her spine? Actually, there weren't that many and it wasn't as dusty as the others (not that she'd know how dusty all of them were by the same experience – Ron had locked her inside a closet as a joke one day… and she had come very close to punching him for it, and she would've, had she not found him in the library where he was purposely hiding so that she couldn't bestow an act of rage and violence), and so she concluded some others had been there, as well. And it was quite gross, if she thought about it.

"So are you going to kiss me or what? Because I've got a schedule, you know. Two minutes for each girl. That way the line won't get too long so fast and gather a riot – you know, although that's impossible, because I'm such a handsome bloke and a good kisser. You can't put a price on that no matter how you look at it."

"You're a git. A _very_ egotistical—"

"Well, if you're _not_ going to kiss me, then I should think I would put matters into my own hands."

And so he detained her lips with his.

oooo

"Good morning, Hermione," Harry greeted her along with Ginny as she took her usual seat at the Gryffindor table.

The Great Hall was filled with noises of happy conversation and laughter that lightened Hermione's already high spirits, though it was set at its customary atmosphere. With hundreds of adolescents in one vast room filled with delicious food and free time for socializing, there was never a sad or quiet day in the Great Hall.

Although she did feel guilty about being happy, she was still happy. What could she do? There was no sodding cure for it! Not even thinking of dying puppies or the starving children in Ethiopia could keep her down! Damn Draco Malfoy and his stupid kisses and silly kiss-me lines!

"Good morning Harry, Ginny, Ron," she beamed, as she grabbed the serving fork and helped herself to a hotcake. Ron turned at the mention of his name, saw Hermione, and gave her his typical muffled greeting, before turning back to his Quidditch chat with Seamus.

Harry was quite taken aback by her good mood as he and Ginny exchanged curious looks. Ginny merely shrugged, coating her pancakes in more syrup.

"You seem to be in an especially good mood today, Hermione," Harry commented as she poured a sufficient quantity of syrup on her breakfast, before taking her fork and knife and cutting it into neat pieces.

"Really?" she asked, startled.

Harry nodded.

"Oh, well, I suppose it's just…" she faltered. "Why wouldn't I be? Have you taken a look outside this morning? Oh, it's absolutely gorgeous." She gave him a wide grin as she took a bite of her meal. Even Harry saw right through her.

Dead puppies! Dead puppies! DYING puppies!

"I agree completely, Hermione," said Ron, suddenly throwing himself into the conversation. He swallowed down his bite. "Perfect weather for Quidditch. Harry, you need to savor the good weather and run down through our strategies for the match with Slytherin," he said, turning to Harry with an ambitious look in his eye. "I want to see you beat them to bloody pulp after what they've done to our locker rooms."

Hermione's ears perked up as she gave her attention to his comment about the Slytherins and the Gryffindor Quidditch locker rooms. "What happened to the locker rooms?" she asked, curious.

"Those insufferable little bints trashed them," Ron answered with a sneer on his face. He was obviously still upset over the matter – which was no surprise, really. Ronald held some grudges for an unnecessarily long amount of time.

"After we won our match with them three months ago," Harry continued, "they somehow found a way to get into our locker rooms and ruined everything." Ron shook his head, frowning in despise, muttering under his breath. "We found it after our Quidditch practice a week later, and we had to spend our time afterwards to clean the whole mess up."

"Oh, it was terrible, Hermione," said Ginny. "I had to cancel my date with Seamus that day—we were supposed to head up to the Astronomy Tower!" Ron sent her a glare, and Ginny sent him a superior look. "Luckily," she said, smirking, "we got to go the next night."

"_Disgusting_, Ginny," Ron said in revulsion. "_Nobody_ wants to know that."

Hermione laughed, shaking her head at their natural sibling spats.

"But how did it go last night, Hermione?" Ginny asked her, with an excited gleam in her eyes and an enthusiastic smile on her face. "How did it go with Connor?"

"_What?"_ Ron sputtered, distorting his face in confusion. "How did _what_ go last night?"

"That's what I'd like to know," said Harry, looking at Hermione.

Hermione shook her head. "It was nothing," she replied, keeping in mind that she wasn't to give too much away. "Dumbledore invited Malfoy and I to go to some special event because of our hard work for the Harmonium."

"And you didn't tell us?" Ron said, in a slightly upset tone. "And who's this Connor bloke?"

"I've heard that name before," Harry said, in thought. "Connor… Connor Fordsman? The Seeker for the Hufflepuff team?"

Hermione nodded, and Ron gaped at her. "Don't tell me you went out on a _date_ with him!" he said, his eyes wide. "But you _hate_ Quidditch! Quidditch and everything associated with it, _including_ Quidditch players!"

Hermione rolled her eyes, taking a sip from her goblet. She refused to say what she wanted to say, which had something to do with Viktor. Ron had never really particularly warmed to Viktor.

In fact, as she thought about it now, the only blokes she liked were Quidditch players. She had fancied Ron before and he was a Quidditch player, Viktor was a Quidditch player (top-notch Quidditch player), Connor was a Quidditch player (albeit not a very good one and she hadn't really liked him in that way), and Draco was a Quidditch player, as well. What was wrong with her? Did she do this on purpose? Did she just have a _thing_ for Quidditch players? It was so _wrong_!

"I don't _hate_ Quidditch, Ron," she curtly said to him.

"Yeah, well, you're not so fond of it, either," he snorted, as he stuffed a piece of bacon in his mouth.

"Wait, wait, so you went out on a _date_ with him?" Harry asked, baffled.

"Not exactly. We were asked to bring a date to the event, so I asked him to accompany me. But we made it clear that we were just going as friends. No romantic feelings involved."

"Oh," said Harry, finally understanding.

"Besides, Ron, why are _you_ so ambitious about Quidditch practice?" inquired Hermione. "Madam Pomfrey hasn't even permitted you to be back at the Pitch just yet."

"Exactly. 'Just yet' being the keywords," he smirked proudly.

Ginny rolled her eyes, as she informed Hermione of the reason for his pompous and confident tone. "Madam Pomfrey told him he's off suspension next week," she told Hermione. "You should have seen his face. It was as if gold was raining from the sky," she sighed, looking at Ron with an exasperated look on her face. "Or better yet, Quidditch equipment."

Hermione laughed.

"The worst part," Harry added in, "is that even though he wasn't permitted to be at the Pitch, he still was. He was yelling at us from the bleachers. It was horrible," he said, shuddering.

Ron elbowed Harry in the ribs. "Sod off, mate," he retaliated. "Had to make sure my team wasn't getting all bent out of form and rusty, didn't I?"

"Speak for yourself," Harry muttered, and Ron shook his head, mumbling a promise of revenge to his friend.

Watching her friends, Hermione felt that burdening shame as she carefully took another sip, her eyes zooming out of focus and her thoughts wandering. She'd never been comfortable with hiding matters from her friends, or lying to them and acting as if everything was perfectly okay… to her, it felt as if she was blocking them out of her other life. She knew it wasn't right. But she knew that hiding it from them was a way of protecting them. A way of protecting them, herself, Draco, and what she and Draco had. It was best to keep it a secret between her and Draco alone, for now.

She knew they'd rather eat any of Neville's potions before actually trying to accept it.

First of all, Ron would blow a gasket. Second, that was if he didn't suffer from a heart attack or fainted first, in which, as sad as it was, she hoped he would. That way she could tie him to a chair until he regained consciousness and calmed down.

And, well, with Harry, she didn't exactly know what she'd do.

She already knew what they would say if she were to confess. Ron would scream and shout at her, and Harry… well, he'd blow his gasket too. They wouldn't understand. They absolutely _hated_ Draco, and she knew that they thought she did, too… except she didn't. Not anymore.

But could they blame her? People change! It was how life was! People changed!

But she knew they would still be angry, far too angry to comprehend any of her reasoning. But could she blame them? She'd been angry with herself when she found out, too.

"Hermione," Ron said, suddenly pulling her back into their conversation and out of her bottomless thoughts, "do you remember that essay Snape assigned us?"

"Which one?" Harry snorted.

Hermione shook away the disturbing feelings of regret and shame as she looked up at them. Such tribulation was not easy to stomach during breakfast, especially when Ron was still not chewing with his mouth closed even after about six and a half years of lectures on meal etiquette.

"Harry's right," she replied. "Which one?"

Across the hall, she caught Draco's eye and he secretly smirked at her, his silver eyes sparkling faintly. Hermione felt her heart leap to her throat, flashing him a small, quick smile, before turning back to her friends. She hastily looked around to see if anyone had noticed, and fortunately, it seemed as if everyone was too caught up in their own business and life to even suspect a thing.

"Bloody hell, how many did he assign us?"

"Three. One for the Weakening Potion, another for the Memory-Loss Potion, and the last for the Memory-Reviving Potion," she informed him.

Ron sighed, puffing out his cheeks, before he started to swear in monotone about their Potions master and a variety of things that related to him: his greasy hair, his hooked nose… and a broom that somehow got thrown in there, for some odd reason.

"Honestly, Ron," she said, shaking her head, grinning a bit but trying her best to give him a disappointed look.

"I wasn't aware he'd assigned us three blasted essays due in two days!" he exclaimed. "I swear to you, he needs to buy himself a new life, rather than spending it torturing us with his ample detentions and pointless assignments. I'm sure he can afford it – he must save enough money refusing to buy shampoo."

oooo

Hermione took her seat beside Harry and Ron as the sound of shuffling papers and shifting bodies, amongst the natural mumbles of chatter, filled the room. Hermione could hear that Ron and Harry were still preoccupied with their quiet argument about where Ron had placed his Invisibility Cloak (apparently, Ron had used it to go up to the Astronomy Tower with Luna one night and had never returned it), and so she seized the opportunity and let her eyes wander the room, in search of Draco.

Luckily, she hadn't needed to look for too long. She felt her stomach fill with hyperactive butterflies as she found him, his bright hair easily separating him from the rest of the class. And in surprise and joy, her eyes landed on his, discovering that he had been watching her, as well. He was seated across the room with a majority of the Slytherins, which, Hermione was slightly saddened to find out, was the farthest he could possibly be from her in this class.

His Slytherin class ring gleamed at her from the distance before she quickly glanced at who was awaiting their attention in the front of the room. He gave her one last glimpse before he turned his attention to their Potions professor.

"Quiet down," Snape barked at them in his usual cold drawl. "The next time you get carried away with your mouths, I assure you I will certainly not hesitate on taking off points from each House."

The class immediately silenced, their eyes on the tall, skinny figure that always seemed to be silently planning each one of their every failures and demises. Dressed in dramatic, long, black robes that hovered just above his ankles and midnight hair that hung just some inches from the broads of his shoulders, was Severus Snape. A heartless being with a heartless reputation to match.

"Turn to page three-hundred and sixteen," he brusquely told them, eyeing each one of them in distaste. "I will begin a lecture on the four kinds of roots, trees, shrubs and flora you are each required to know to pass this class. You are assigned to write one scroll for each matter, and so it is four scrolls of notes that I will be expecting from each of you – organized, neat, and not looking as if you had persuaded a blast-ended skrewt to write it _for_ you."

He then gave a glare at Neville, who, in return, quivered in his seat. "And yes, I mean _you_, Longbottom. If you, yourself, cannot read your own scribble, then I suggest you save me the distress of trying to figure out just what language you were trying to write in, and burn it. I don't care if you have to start over a thousand times; I want you to get it _right_. Is that understood?"

Neville nodded his head; his eyes dim with shame and his cheeks rosy from embarrassment. Snorts of laughter could be heard from the Slytherin's side of the class.

"Very well, then," he said as rustles of parchments were heard from all around the room. Hermione sighed, shaking her head in annoyance and disapproval at Snape's unnecessary insults towards her housemates, dipping her quill in her inkbottle to prepare.

She heard Ron mutter under his breath, before she heard a surprising shout and felt him jump in his seat beside her.

"_Weasley_! Do you think I am a deaf fool? _Twenty _points from Gryffindor and detention for your insolence on not following my instructions on keeping your mouth shut!"

oooo

Hermione dashed out of their Transfiguration room, breathing in a rapid pace that matched her heart's tattoo. She shifted her book bag on her shoulder that was slightly sagging from the heavy weight of her books, as her shoes pounded against the marble floors.

She was late. Twenty minutes late. But was it truly her fault that McGonagall had just decided to talk to her on this particular day after class about the ideals of her advanced assignments? There was no doubt that while she would normally be thrilled to speak about her academics with her House Head, she had been itching like a dog with fleas to dart out of the classroom the moment her professor had stopped her. She knew she should have refused, considering that she had indeed been very reluctant and impatient, but the look on her professor's face left no room for an answer, much less one that would refuse her.

Draco had specifically told her to meet him in the common room after their classes ended, or so she received his letter by way of owl during their lunch hour in the Great Hall. Apparently, he had forgotten to tell her in the morning, and she had to be the one to suffer for it.

Of course, when she had received that certain note, she had been quite surprised and had to immediately hide it from Harry and Ron, but quickly discovered that she hadn't fooled the eyes of Ginny Weasley. Undoubtedly, Ginny began to pester her endlessly, snagging the ears of Harry and Ron, who then hastily dropped their conversation with Neville and Dean to find out what was happening between her and the youngest Weasley. Hermione stood her ground about the letter, saying that it was merely from a friend outside of their school.

But then they just happened to point out the blush that she unknowingly had on her cheeks. It was then that Hermione had to break out a ridiculous lie. She simply told them that it was from Viktor who was just owling to check up on her. Fortunately, they believed her.

And when she had been sure that she was safe, she had looked up to the Slytherin table to find Draco's smiling eyes laughing at her, apparently having caught the whole thing. Hermione scowled at him for his pitiless apathy before Harry had called her attention and she had to cast her eyes away.

But just as Hermione's thoughts pulled her away from her current stance and situation, she wasn't aware of the approaching figure that was turning the hall just as she was, and found herself running straight into him. She gave out a small shriek as she fell back to the floor, on her bum, her bag flying behind her.

She squinted her eyes shut in surprise and slight pain, giving out a sigh and feeling aches start to throb in her rear.

But as she opened them, she felt her entire face take up a hot shade of scarlet.

"H-Headmaster," she said, stunned, and suddenly very, very embarrassed.

Dumbledore was looking down on her, grinning. He offered his hand to help her up. "Greetings, Miss Granger," he chuckled to her, as she took his hand and slowly got up, dusting herself off. "How fortunate to run into you. You were just the person I wanted to see."

She had a feeling he was lying. It was never fortunate to literally run into someone. It _hurt_.

Hermione let out a nervous laugh, very conscious of the blush eating up her cheeks. She took a step back, kneeling down, pushing in the books that were beginning to spill out of her book bag. She then grasped the strap and pulled it up onto her shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Professor Dumbledore," she said, her tone pleading and resentful. "I know I'm Head Girl and am obligated to enforce the rules of no running in the hallways, but I was just in a hurry, and I—"

Dumbledore raised his hand to stop her explanation. "I am already well aware," he told her. "There is no need to explain further. I did recognize your hurry – after all, why should one run if it is not in the race of time?" he chuckled thoughtfully.

"Thank you," she said meekly, still embarrassed. She scolded herself for being so reckless in her haste — she had almost tackled down the old man, for Merlin's sake! This was one incident that she was sure her conscious would never let her live down.

What if she had injured him? She would be known as the Injurer of the Elderly! Or, worse, she could have killed him and have gotten expelled! What would she do with her life?

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" she asked worriedly. She hoped he still drank his calcium.

"Oh, no, Miss Granger," he told her, still smiling.

Hermione let out a sigh of relief.

"Actually, the reason I wanted to see you was to speak to you about Mister Malfoy," he said.

Hermione's heart stopped in a dead stand at the mention of his name. Did Dumbledore know? '_Holy Merlin's knickers,_' Hermione frantically said to herself, mentally. _'He knows! But, how could he? Had he seen? Sodding peeping old men!'_

"Malfoy?" she asked, trying to sound as nonchalant and normal as before, when she couldn't have cared a rat's arse about him. But nervousness jumped and bounced from inside her bones, making her feel anything but normal and nonchalant.

So it was Malfoy's fault she was stopped in the hall! _Damn_ Malfoy!

"Yes, Mister Malfoy."

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. "What about him?"

What was Dumbledore going to ask her? Where was he going with this? Was he going to ask her to kill him? It was odd, but she wouldn't put it beyond him. She wouldn't put it beyond anybody.

"Well, last evening at the Showcase, one of the waiters told me that Mister Malfoy had been continuously drinking glass after glass of wine. I tried searching for him, of course, but I only found that he had already taken his leave, just as you had."

Hermione froze, her heart's furious beat muffled in her ears. She was terrified.

"The waiter, clever that he was, also told me that he had given Mister Malfoy merely imitation wine so that he would not receive the full affect of the wine. Or rather, the more brutal affects of the wine." Hermione felt that she had started to hold her breath at this point, as Dumbledore's sapphire eyes held a secret glimmer inside of them.

"And so, I couldn't help but wonder if you'd seen him that night, if he had made it back to his room under his normal state of mind."

"Yes!" she wanted to scream. "He did! We were _kissing_ in the broom closet, all right? Now leave me _alone_!"

But she didn't.

"Um," she said, quickly swallowing hard, "I did. I saw him, but only for a minute. He was… well," she told him, her answer not quite so specific but her stomach suddenly feeling queasy.

'_So he wasn't drunk last night,'_ she thought. '_But _imitation_ wine? Is there even such a thing? But… nevertheless, I suppose that waiter really was clever!'_

And there was also a small urge to seek out that waiter and thank him personally for not getting Draco as drunk as he had clearly wanted to and set out to be.

Their headmaster nodded, his smile still in place.

"I'm glad. Thank you for your time, Miss Granger. I don't want to delay you any further from your awaiting business."

"It's my pleasure to help, Headmaster," she said, still feeling quite uneasy under his gaze. She had an odd feeling in her gut that he knew something.

But Hermione shook that bothersome feeling away as she bid him her final goodbye and made her way down the corridor, her mind intent on reaching Draco but even more intent on literally not running into anymore of the school's staff and teachers.

oooo

Hermione arrived at the portrait with anticipation buzzing through her fingers. Though, there was that certain sliver of dread that threaded inside her because of the mere fact that she was about half an hour late. She wondered apprehensively if Draco was annoyed with her tardiness, or maybe even furious. She highly doubted that he would be angry with her for such a measly thing… but, then again, he was unpredictable even to himself now, ever since he'd started harboring "feelings" for her, or so he had said.

So, as she stood and said the password with as little impatience in her voice as she could, she knew not what to expect.

She had the thought to scold him for his excessive wine drinking (so what if it was imitation wine? Dumbledore now had them on the spot! He put _her_ on the spot!) and his hasty leave. It was his fault, anyway. Well, mostly. But she couldn't be blamed on part of a half and half situation. She had brought Connor as a friend. A friend. It wasn't her fault he got all jealous.

Though it was all strangely exhilarating to see him so worked up over her taking another boy to the Show.

She stepped through, her eyes immediately landing on the figure sitting down on the couch of the common room. She heard the door close behind her and he looked up and met hers. He stood.

"Draco," she said, her pulse quickening.

"Granger," he drawled, nodding at her. "What kept you?"

Sighing heavily, she made her way over to him, collapsing and dropping her book bag onto the couch. He followed suit. "McGonagall asked me to stay after class to talk about my advanced assignments," she told him in a weary tone. "That kept me for about twenty minutes, and just as I was dashing down the hall, I ran into Dumbledore – literally. And it was all _your_ fault, too. You and your bloody excessive wine drinking."

"What?" he asked her.

"Dumbledore noticed you drank a lot of wine the other evening—"

"How?"

"The waiter told him."

"Damn!" he cursed. "I knew he was a rat! He _told_ me he was in Hufflepuff House when he attended here! And I didn't even _ask_!"

"—And he questioned me. All he was missing was the room, the cold metal chair and the spotlight, you know."

"What did he ask?"

"If you made it back all right, you know, still on your feet. And not on your face."

"And what did you say?"

"I said I think you did," she sourly told him. "Because, how would I know? Despite the fact that we _coincidentally_ left at the same time, we didn't see each other for the rest of the night."

He nodded. He was glad that she was such a good and quick liar. "You didn't stammer, did you?"

"I…" she hesitated. "Why is that important?"

"Well," he said, "he knows, then."

Scratch that. _Terrible_ liar.

"I could've stammered out of surprise. Honestly, if someone asked you about me, wouldn't you be surprised as well?"

"No," he answered. "Because I'm Head Boy."

She hated him. Really hated him.

"And you're Head Girl. It makes perfect sense," he continued on.

"Oh, Merlin, Malfoy. Shut up."

So, maybe the odds were higher than she had thought. Maybe she had given them away. It was still his fault.

He was looking at her, smirking.

"If you're thinking of snogging now, tough luck, Malfoy," she snapped at him. Sure, she wasn't that angry with him, but still. At least she knew she was capable of feeling something other than happiness and bothersome giddiness. That had to count for something. "We're here to study."

"God, Granger, stop being such a bore."

"_Not_ helping your chances."

"You were half an hour late, Granger," he said to her, "you can't just freeze up on me."

She turned her head to face him. "I can freeze up on you whenever I like," she said smugly, crossing her arms.

Draco gave her an exasperated look. "Look, I'm only saying that maybe the daft old man doesn't know. He probably doesn't. Maybe his hearing went bad like it's supposed to. I don't know, Granger. But, you know, it's not too late to call it quits – it was only last night. We could just as easily end it."

She frowned at him. "I didn't say I wanted _that_. There's no need to take it to extreme measures," she mumbled.

He hesitated. "Good," he said. "Me neither. But if you're going to be difficult—"

"Do you really want to get into a spat with me over snogging?" she asked him, though now she was smiling from the ridiculousness of it all.

Smirking, he leaned his face closer to hers, closing the distance between. An almost identical smile spread across Hermione's features.

Draco had seen her smile, of course. Millions of times. With her two friends, when she was laughing along when something impeccably stupid and impeccably funny happened. Or when they were assigned new coursework. Seeing her smile up close, however, was an entirely different experience altogether.

He'd never felt this way before, and it scared him. He always felt as if he'd had about twenty drinks every time he saw her. Was that healthy?

He doubted it.

He'd also never spent so much time thinking about snogging someone. It was rather pathetic, actually, when it came to that. But when they actually did snog, he could not bring himself to complain.

"And they call you daft," she said to him teasingly, amusement flittering across her lips.

Draco smirked before pressing his lips to hers, delaying his response. Not that Hermione minded, of course. He kissed her soundly, as she lifted her other arm to meet his neck, his hands slowly making their way down her body before wrapping around her slender frame and pulling her closer to him.

"I think that means you owe me twice as much," he said to her, burying her in kisses. "Due to your unruly delay."

"No matter," she told him, in the midst of his kisses, her hands gliding to his hair. His mouth was in a feverish chain that kept her far too busy for any more words, his heat flowing into her mouth and seeping deeper into the very pits of her soul. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder."

"Agreed," he said, in a deep voice that rumbled from his throat, as Hermione suddenly found her back against the couch's cushions. She was to say something in protest, but as Draco's lips descended on hers, capturing her mouth into another passionate kiss that caused even her heart to halt in the warmth of the moment, she recognized the yearning and desire, her objection disintegrated inside her throat.

His body molded against hers. Every curve, every ridge. It amazed her at how they could fit to perfectly, so precisely. It was almost as if they were… made for each other.

Hermione felt shivers when she thought of it.

Her back was compressing with the soft cushions beneath her. Soon, she found his lengthy legs entangled with her own, the heat between them exuding and flowing through their veins. It even felt…. sacred, which was certainly odd for Draco. After all, snogging was just snogging. It had always been that way. A pleasurable pastime. But it was not sacred.

He wondered what else she would possibly twist around into something remarkable. Something old to something strangely new.

They'd planned on studying together. She supposed the studying would come later. And she appreciated that.

Just as she felt as if her lungs would begin to crumble in from lack of air, Hermione slowly turned her mouth away to catch her breath, and Draco trailed his kisses down the sensitive skin of her neck. Now, Hermione'd never been kissed on the neck before, and so it was definitely very new to her. It even tickled a bit.

She discovered that she liked it very much.

Her hands became flustered and fumbled with his robe. She tried to find the button and undo it; annoyed with the weight it brought upon her, but found that she became all too distracted with Draco's intimate actions.

She wondered if they'd have to burn this couch afterwards. Or if Dumbledore would come inside their common room one day and refuse to sit on the couch – no matter how comfortable it was – because he'd know straight away that they'd snogged passionately on it. It was odd, but she didn't put it beyond their headmaster. He could be awfully smart and observant that way. It was creepy.

"Draco," she breathed, the rapid current of blood pounding inside her veins and making her feel lightheaded. She felt feverish. "Draco, could we just…"

"What?" he panted slightly, as he looked up at her beneath his mussed blond hair and his lips just as swollen and inflamed from their passionate snogging. "What is it?"

"Your robes," she told him. "Could you take it off?"

One of his brows rocketed up beneath his bangs, the corners of his mouth quirking into a slight smirk. "Why, if you were so eager to undress me, Granger, all you had to do was ask," he teased her.

Hermione laughed, shaking her head. "Draco, you know what I mean. It's annoying, and bothersome."

"Right, then," he said, before he paused thoughtfully. "All right, I'll take off my robe if you take off your tie and your shoes."

Hermione furrowed her brow in thought of what his intentions were, before he added,

"It's annoying, and bothersome."

Hermione then let out a small laugh, as he smiled widely and gave her a quick, soft kiss. "Fine," she said. "I'll take off my shoes and my tie, if you take off your robes and your jumper, as well."

"Not my tie?"

"We'll see how that goes," she said, giving him a quick wink, and he laughed.

He pulled himself up off of her as she sat up in the couch right beside him. She pulled off her shoes and tossed it to the other couch in the common room. Draco watched her attentively, taking off his robes, as she unknotted her tie. She turned back to him, grinning faintly, as he just managed to undo his tie as well.

"Well, now, where were we?" he said to her, as he stood and neared her. He wrapped an arm around her waist.

"You do know that that was the farthest our little striptease is going to go, right?" she told him, her lips pulled into a wider grin.

"Yeah, we'll see how that goes," he responded, also sending her a quick wink, imitating her earlier reply. She laughed, but was instantly silenced as he kissed her delighted lips, leaving no such room for words.

Now she could not even have a single thought about dead puppies. It was just too distracting.


	27. Snogging and Sacred Places

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: All these Disclaimers all mean the same thing: Harry Potter solely belongs to J.K. Rowling.

**Snogging and Sacred Places**

The week went along in a blissful blur to Hermione.

Classes, assignments, snogging in the common room… she'd never spent her days this way before. But she had just recently discovered (and it was about time, or at least she thought so) that snogging was such a pleasurable pastime. It was – she dared to say – such, such fun.

She never thought it could be so… invigorating. Now she couldn't even really blame all of those couples she'd caught going at it in the halls or in the library. Though the library bit _was_ taking it a little too far. She could swear people these days had no respect for good literature. If books had eyes (and some of them actually did), she knew they'd certainly seen too much. And to make things worse: some of those couples even made noises! _Slurping_ noises!

Draco and Hermione did not make such disgusting noises. They had dignity and they intended to keep every ounce of it.

For a pair that formerly hated spending time alone together, they spent more time in the common room with each other than they did alone in their rooms. They did their assignments together, but somehow, some way, they had always ended their studying meetings… well, not studying. Snogging was a better word. She had self-control, she truly did, but there was just a danger about being in a room with him without anyone else to keep them on their toes about their secret relationship. It was all Draco's fault. Damn Slytherin antics! They were so sly and tricky that even she was amusedly wondering why they hadn't taken over the world just yet!

Nevertheless, it still made her feel slightly bad. She was letting him distract her from her work. What if the professors had some sort of machine or spell that could tell them she had done her assignment whilst having their Slytherin Head Boy on her face? She wouldn't be surprised. Fred and George were insane enough to sell those kinds of merchandise, and she even predicted they would even start some wacky wizarding black market when they got older. She wouldn't put it beyond those two.

They would settle on the table inside the common room, sitting across from each other, determinedly trying to accomplish their tasks. It was rather distracting sometimes, since she would absentmindedly look up a few times and watch him focus on his work. She'd never seen someone so smart stare so hard at a paper – there was Ron, but he was nowhere near being the brightest light bulb of the bunch. She even felt slightly thrilled to see him agonizingly pouring over his assignments because he had advanced coursework, just like her. It was like finding one of her kind in a very vast but indifferent world. Thrilling, absolutely thrilling.

But with Draco, it was different. Here he was, a boy she was interested in romantically who had actually bothered and put in some energy to reveal to her that her feelings were mutual. He was also – she was convinced – her intellectual equal, in spite of the fact that he could be a prat and was one most of the time. But knowing that she actually had an intellectual equal in the world made it that much more exciting.

They did do things other than studying and their assignments, but the specifics were classified. Just thinking about it made her blush sometimes. To keep it simple (and clean), they'd done their share of snogging. Or more. She didn't know. Was there such a thing as too much snogging? They got their work done, didn't they? And they didn't go around snogging each other senseless in the stacks. For goodness sakes, they had class – they knew better than to engage into something so intimate as kissing in public places where they could be easily found out.

But it was healthy, their relationship. They conversed about many topics, but she noticed that the subject of Harry and Ron always hit a sour note when it came up. Draco really did detest them, and she still couldn't figure out why. She'd tried asking him, but it was impossible to get a word out when he was ranting about how poor Ronald was, or how atrocious and hideous Harry's scar was that it should be considered a crime to even look upon it.

And so, to prevent her from literally attacking him and grabbing a roll of duct tape for his mouth (since he _was_ putting down her friends), she learned how to avoid talking about them, which she knew Draco appreciated.

On his part, he also learned how not to upset her, though he still did, sometimes intentionally and not. He was still Draco Malfoy, after all. One could change many things, but one could not change that. He did try to limit his quips, and Hermione could see that if she squinted just enough at his expression when she said something and was almost expecting some putdown. They'd only gotten into three small arguments so far, and they figured that was a good amount.

Saying the word "relationship" was still a bit odd to Hermione, but she'd gotten used to saying it inside her mind. They were doing just fine, and she was very glad of that. She'd never felt so happy to have a Slytherin prick be her boyfriend. It was a very rare feeling, considering the fact that she was a Gryffindor.

In a nutshell: it was all very overwhelming for the pair of them. It was an entirely different feeling than anything else they'd ever felt in their lives. It was something that caused them to melt inside, but something that, at the same time, built them up to be the most complete they've ever felt. It was the delightful, even frightening, feeling of total completion. Of course, they'd never told each other that (it had something to do with pride), and they'd never really felt absolute completion in their lives before (which brought on some questions on how they could possibly recognize the feeling to be what it really is,) but they just knew, deep inside within the singing of their abnormally merry hearts, that this was it.

Completion.

And though it was strange and certainly something to get used to, they savored every second of it.

Hermione even visited Guinevere a few times when Draco let her into his room, where she found her beloved owl to be quite happy and healthy – a good clue that Draco had indeed been feeding her everyday, which also instilled a great deal of delight inside her – with her companion, Archer, Draco's owl. It also made Hermione ridiculously happy to see that their owls were just as in love with other as they themselves were.

She still wondered at how their owls could be in the same circumstance as they were. Granted, it was not exactly the same, but close enough to call it mildly amazing and creepy.

She did get quite saddened when they had to go off to class and act like their normal unsympathetic, non-in-love selves. It felt very bleak and restricting. But sometimes, when she tried to tell him that fact in a not-so-obvious way, he would only pass her one of his clever remarks on her clinginess to him. And while he never exactly told her that he would miss her like she wished he would, she saw that look inside his eyes at times, in the common room, in classes, in the Great Hall. He never admitted it (and she predicted he never would) because of his gigantic sack of pride, and maybe because he'd feel absolutely ridiculous saying it to her, but she knew.

But even though she did see right through him and clearly notice those longing gazes he sometimes threw in her direction, a part of her still wanted that reassurance that he did miss her and wanted to be with her. After all, "I'm going to miss you" was just five words, tops. Surely it shouldn't be that hard? Even Crabbe and Goyle could muster enough brain cells to say it! But as clever as Hermione was, she knew it would strike a big, painful blow to his ego and that Draco was never one to risk anything that would hurt his pride. Many boys were cowards when it came to big, burly men; Draco was a coward when it came to expressing his feelings through and through. It was odd, but it bizarrely made sense.

Needless to say, those hours they were forced to spend apart managed to be the longest hours of their lives. For a reason she could not explain, he always succeeded in sitting the farthest he could from her in each of their classes, which, she had to admit, did hurt a bit. It also made her want to hex him as well.

When she had finally made up her mind to ask him why he would sit so far away from her and end her cruel puzzlement in a quite bothered manner, he only responded with a smirk. But it was not an evil smirk, or even a slightly wicked one. It was the one he reserved only for her – a smirk hinted with tease, fondness, and that damn I-know-something-you-don't layer that she loved but hated at the same time. It greatly annoyed her when he insisted on hiding things from her in such a childish manner. But she had persisted and persisted, relentlessly asking him without rest, until she almost threatened to boycott snogging with him until he told her.

Lasses, that did the trick. She was slightly irritated with the ways of the male mind, however, as she could have told him she would fling herself off of a building and he still would have refused her. But _snogging_? Oh, Dear God, _no_! _Anything_ but snogging!

She was completely disgusted.

"Fine, Granger," he had said to her, irritation in his voice. It was very obvious to her that he never liked to give into her, especially when it was only her whining and complaining, even scolding that was involved. But then why should she care? She was revolted by him. Utterly revolted.

Then he had sighed heavily, running a hand through his pale hair. He avoided looking at her, looking rather bothered, and was instead busying himself with his parchments and expensive quills. "I sit so far away because I have a better view, that's all."

Hermione had then quirked an eyebrow at him in confusion. _'This had better be good, Draco Malfoy,_' she thought cynically. _'Or else I _will_ boycott snogging with you, you bloody sex-addict.'_ Okay, so sex-addict wasn't the right word, but did that honestly matter? "A better view of what?"

"Of you."

That was then that Hermione could not help but feel this tremendous jerk inside her chest. A warm feeling instantly flushed away her bitterness and disgust. Her brown eyes sparkled radiantly and her pink lips were pulled into a wide smile as she watched him.

What he had said was not something he would usually say (he was obviously not the romantic type), but from his tense movements and the fact that he still could not look at her and was fussing over his quills made it apparent to her that he had actually meant it.

Now, this was certainly new.

"Really?" she had asked him, though he was still avoiding her gaze. "Is that really why?"

"No. I just wanted a better view of Potter. Yes, of _course_ that's why, Granger. Must you _really_ ask so many unnecessary ridiculous questions?" he had hastily asked her in aggravation, finally looking up. "But don't go around getting a big head," he told her quickly. "I only watch you to see if Potter or Weasley attempt making a move on you."

Ginny, Harry, and Ron had also noticed the sudden change in her mood, though she had tried her best to hide her happiness. They often commented on her constant cheerfulness and began to question her, asking her if she had been taking any other potions lately. As predicted, Hermione then somewhat shouted at them for their audacity, trilling truthfully that no, she wasn't drinking any potions and that even if she was, it wouldn't be any of their business. And then that had been the end of that. Until about twenty minutes later, when they had chosen to worriedly ask her if she was certain.

The nerve! The _utter_ nerve!

Really, it was quite bothersome and annoying to have her friends pester her that way. It was bad when she had been rather addicted to those Insomniac potions, but she was afraid it was even worse now. Not that their intentions weren't sincere, of course, but it was just that she wanted so badly to share her joy with them too, but she knew very well that she couldn't. Or else they would find a way to find Draco and beat him to a bloody pulp, and then things wouldn't seem so great anymore. It would all go from high to low in a millisecond so fast it'd all be just some vague blur to her.

Ginny Weasley was another element all in itself. She was a persistent little bugger, and Hermione was actually glad that she hadn't been so happy around her before. It was absolutely indescribable how the young Weasley pounced on her with eyes wide and raging with enthusiasm, asking her what was wrong with her – in a way that she had never been asked before, no doubt. It was mad. Ginny Weasley was mad.

The worst part was, Ginny was right. She was right. Well, not that Hermione had told her so (the horror if she had done so! The HORROR!) or had confirmed it in any way, but she couldn't get over the thought that she was pointing darts straight at her face. She was asking her about Draco, asking what had happened, and Hermione had almost been going to literally strangle her from frustration. But when she had been going to, Ginny had caught her arms and only smiled sweetly.

Damn Quidditch reflexes!

She could swear all of these people out here were trying to kill her. She really could.

oooo

"Hermione," Harry suddenly said to her, apprehensively looking around them, just as Ron and Ginny walked off to run a quick errand. "Snape isn't here today."

"Well," she said, smirking slightly, adjusting her book bag on her shoulder. "And here I thought you'd be pleased with that. Third absence this week. It really is impressive how he's missing out all these chances to torture his favorite students."

It really was.

"But, doesn't something feel a bit… off, to you?"

'_Yes, Harry,'_ she would tell him if she wasn't so intent on keeping her worries to herself about this matter. _'Something does feel very off. Thank you for asking.'_

"Yeah. Dumbledore seems to be having some trouble with hiring a new understudy. Really, it isn't good for us to be missing so many Potions lessons like this."

It really wasn't. What was bloody taking so long? Was no one interested in Potions as Snape was? Granted, Snape was a very strange, abnormal man… but wasn't there a nice, normal man who wanted to teach Potions to chaotic but harmless adolescents?

"No, Hermione, I mean it. Something's… not right."

"Harry," she sighed, looking at him, a bit uneasy that Harry was now sharing her concern about the nonattendance of their evil Potions professor. She had hoped that if she hadn't said anything about it, he would just let it go as something measly and unimportant. But obviously Harry was just as worried as she was. This told her something, indistinctly, at the very back of her mind, that it just might be more serious than Dumbledore had let on.

And at that thought, the image of Draco flickered inside of her mind. She had asked him about Snape, too. She wondered whether he really knew something and had merely lied to her, or if he simply hadn't a clue either.

Despite their differences, Draco and Dumbledore were both very sly blokes. But if they were hiding something – the very same thing, coincidentally or not – what reason would they have to hide it from them? A compelling question indeed.

"I asked Dumbledore about it, back when the paper first started. He said it was nothing, just personal business," she explained a bit hesitantly. She shot him a worried look.

"I highly doubt it," Harry snorted. "Honestly, Snape? What sort of personal business can the man possibly have?"

"I don't know," she shrugged, also contemplating about this whole fishy Snape-disappearances business. Something about it reeked to her. "I mean… Snape's just… _Snape_. He's bound to have some sort of things that are happening in his life that we don't know about. He's always been one of those types with skeletons in his closet. We ought not to think about it so much."

Because if they did, the pair of them would attain very nasty headaches and get nowhere whatsoever.

"But you don't think… it's about…."

"No," she quickly said, furiously shaking her head, rapidly feeling panic take root inside her chest. Just thinking about it alone sent fear to slither through her body. "I don't think so. I mean, if something came up, wouldn't Dumbledore have notified us? Or, more specifically, you?"

Harry let out a deep sigh. "You're right. But I just feel like… something's not right, around here. Snape's never been absent from his lessons like this our years before."

Hermione concurred. She thought maybe she was the first one who thought anything of it, but now Harry was beginning to smell the stench as well.

She offered a somewhat lame response. "I suppose there's a first time for everything."

Harry sent her a doubtful look, his deep green eyes filled with skepticism and dim insecurity. "Yeah. I suppose so."

oooo

After lunch they were sent to the library yet again, as Hermione sighed heavily, muttering to herself about why Dumbledore hadn't gotten a new teacher for them just yet. An ad in the Daily Prophet would have guaranteed a few, at least.

It was a well-known reality that she loved the library, but not when all Ron did was make silly drawings of people from Slytherin House on his parchments and enchant them into mini-movies (all of which ended in horrible bloodshed and death, by the way). She particularly disliked the one (several) he made about Draco, but she laughed, anyway. It had been rather funny, and she figured what Draco didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

And though Harry and she had halted their discussion about their loathsome and absent Potions professor, Severus Snape, they had sent each other a few looks during their meal that told each other otherwise. It was true she had been thinking deeply about the matter though Dumbledore had told her not to worry. She couldn't help it – curiosity was in her nature. But she also knew that she shouldn't go and pry into things… at least, not just yet.

She decided she would ask Draco when they met up again. She had asked him before, back when he had been hospitalized because of his reckless fight with Ernie and Blaise, but they hadn't quite been on these terms just yet. Surely if he knew something, he would tell her? After all, they were having a relationship – though it was a behind-closed-doors sort of relationship – and certainly if Harry or the school was in danger, he had a duty to uphold (and so did she, as they were both in this relationship), which was to tell her ahead of time. Especially now.

She found that if Draco was in any way strongly allied with the Dark Lord, she knew that she couldn't be able to forgive him. Not in this lifetime, at least. True, she had strong, deep feelings for him, but who could love a murderer, or even an associate to a murderer? Especially one that was helping to kill one of her best friends?

Except she could honestly say that she knew that Draco was not a Death Eater. That statement was not exactly formed on verbal words because he had never told her outright that he was not one, but she had seen both of his arms (for reassurance) in all its tan-less, toned, and color-absent glory and she had intently searched it with her eyes. It was all based on her further knowledge. She had not seen a Dark Mark, not even a trace, which relieved her beyond words could ever describe. But even if that wasn't much of a comfort, she knew that if he were indeed a Death Eater, he would not have persisted on having a relationship with her. She was a Muggle-born, after all. And she had not seen a single hint of a wicked plan just yet, nor had he plunged a dagger through her chest or back in the numerous times they had been alone.

Besides, though the terms they were on now was certainly new, she could read him as well as she could read Harry or Ron… or at least she liked to think she could. But even if he was just playing a role in some conniving, evil plan to kill her or to use her to get to Harry, she had to say – he was doing a great job. He was indeed, really fooling her. Because his kisses were indeed convincing, and not to mention the way he smiled and looked at her so fondly and warmly. In her whole life, she had never seen anyone look at her the way he did. Not even Viktor, who had had her put in the bottom of the lake in the TriWizard tournament in fourth year.

This made her question the true depths of what they had gotten themselves into.

But as she was sitting down, trying to read through the twentieth chapter of her Advanced Transfiguration book, she found herself repeatedly reading over the same line and surprisingly not soaking in the information. This could only mean one thing: she was horribly distracted.

She sighed, digging her head into her hands before unhurriedly raising her head and looking up. She could hear Ron and Harry's discussion about spending summer at the Burrow again (before getting settled and actually getting a job), as she sighed silently.

She realized she needed some clarity on this matter. She had to talk to Draco, and she luckily knew just where to find him.

Hesitantly, she closed her book, marking her page. Her eyes flickered to the two boys sitting some distance away from her, sitting down on the table by the window. Both had books in their hands, but their eyes were on anything but the pages. They were talking animatedly, laughing, and Hermione felt a slight pang in her heart to see such a beloved sight.

She slid her book inside her book bag and clasped it shut. She slowly got up and slipped the strap on her shoulder as Ron and Harry's eyes traveled to her. They casually quieted down to question her.

"Going somewhere?" Ron asked her. "I have to say, it took you a lot slower to read through that chapter than the others."

Hermione gave him a look but then let out a heavy outtake of air as she shifted her feet. "I'm going to go study somewhere else. I can't focus when you two are laughing and talking as loud as you are – this is the library, after all, and I thought you two would respect the rules that came with being in here."

It was unnecessarily cold, what she had shot back at them. Or, rather: Ron. But her brain was near to overheating and her stomach was in knots. She could not be held responsible for the movement of her mouth and the words it happened to form.

"Relax, Hermione," Ron told her. "We put up a silence-shield. We won't get in trouble."

"I get distracted," she pointed out. "Don't worry, I'll go study with Ernie, or someone who's intent on studying as much as I am. You and Harry can keep talking if you like."

"Sorry, Hermione," said Harry, giving her an apologetic smile. "You don't have to go. We can quiet down. I suppose we just got a little overexcited thinking about the end of the year, that's all."

Hermione shook her head, giving him a faint smile for his sincere intentions. "No, it's fine, Harry. I need to borrow some notes, anyway. I'll see you two later." And with a reassuring smile, she turned on her heel and headed out of their area.

Ron looked bemusedly over at the aisle, following her retreating back. Harry let out a heavy sigh beside him, closing his book and laying it beside him.

"Mate, why is it that she's always nicer to you?" Ron asked him, a bit puzzled.

"I don't know. Maybe it's because I don't try to pick a fight with her every time she talks," answered Harry.

"Ha, ha, Harry," Ron said dryly. "Seriously, mate. You two have gotten a lot closer than I remembered you were before. Say, did you two meet up in the summer?"

"A few times. Hermione's parents tracked me down and we went out."

"Are you sure it was her parents? You know how Hermione is…."

Harry laughed. "I'm sure. They told me. Her mum's just like her, you know. Clever and witty. They gave me a tour of their home. Loads of books, I tell you."

Ron snorted. "That's no surprise."

Harry nodded, smiling.

"So, you two went out? As in… friends, or _more_ than friends?" he asked, grinning.

"Friends, Ron. _Friends_. Hermione and I are just friends."

"No, Hermione and _I_ are just friends. You two, I'm not so sure."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Sod off, Ron. You're being annoying."

"Ah, well, say that to Hermione, and she'll agree so ecstatically that her knickers would fly off." His eyes flickered down to his book. "Well, I'm just curious," Ron shrugged. "I may not seem to be attentive to our little bookworm, but I am. Something's happening that she's not telling us about."

Harry gave him a nervous smile, but his emerald eyes were serious and dim. "You really think so?" Harry asked him.

"She's acting real peculiar, that's all. She seems so happy all the time. Which is nice, and I do want her to be happy, but it just happened so suddenly. And every time we ask her what the reason is for her sudden mood change, she never gives us a straight answer. I've just never seen her so constantly… joyful," he said, distorting his face.

Harry stayed silent, contemplating deeply about Ron's words. There was a whispering in the back of his mind, but he didn't want to believe it. But he realized that if he did, then everything would all add up. Her constant smiles, twinkling eyes, that new bounce in her step…. Harry had seen people who were in love before, and Hermione seemed to rightfully fit in that category.

He was glad that she was in love… but he wasn't so glad about just whom he thought she was in love with. In fact, it bothered him and formed tangles in his stomach just thinking about it. He then realized that he had let her go on far too long with secrets. He had to know the truth. His assumptions alone almost made him queasy and sick.

Now, all he had to do was to talk to her and let her prove him wrong.

oooo

Hermione made her way to the other secluded side of the library pretending to look for a book. She tried to act like her normal book-searching self, eyes rapidly hunting for a book that she wasn't even sure existed.

But with slick movements and great acting skills, she found herself back at Draco's aisle.

There was a particular reason she had taken to calling it "Draco's aisle" besides the usual avoidance of confusion (there were _many_ aisles in the Hogwarts library). He was the only one in his right mind to claim this part of the library as his. Ah, yes. The only part of this place with the most books on the Dark Arts, or at least the milder bunch that weren't able to fit into the Restricted Area. It was quite funny how no one paid much mind to this place, as if forgotten, but then the library was so massive that she wasn't surprised. And the fact that he was surrounded by sordid and grotesque details did not disturb him the slightest bit. He had once told her, his pale face graced with a slight smirk, "It almost feels like being back at the manor."

How comforting.

She entered his aisle quietly. He immediately looked up and smirked at her.

"Granger," he said, surprised yet pleased. His smirk gradually evolved into a rare smile, which tickled her heart and automatically curved her lips upwards into a grin, as well. His cool gray eyes glimmered faintly. "To what do I owe this gracious visit to?"

Hermione opened her book bag and reached inside. She pulled out a small crimson bag and raised it for him to see.

"I brought Guinevere's treats."

"And of course," he told her in his familiar drawl. "It's about the owl. Always about the owl. I'm actually starting to think you just may fancy your owl more than you fancy me."

"_Your_ assumptions, Draco," shrugged Hermione. "No amount of protesting and objecting will do."

Shaking his head, Draco rolled his eyes. "God, Granger. Drop the act. It doesn't hurt to stroke the ego sometimes with a flattering comment, or a 'No, Draco, of course I don't fancy my owl more than I fancy you – you're much too deliciously handsome' would do just fine, too, you know." His head was tilted and his face had SMUG AND SURE AS HELL KNOWS IT all over it.

Hermione couldn't help but laugh at his comment. She hadn't heard that one before. "I think maybe you 'stroke' your ego a bit too much," she snorted, nearing him.

He shrugged, blasé. "It gets a bit lonely, but when you're rich and irresistible to the female population, you learn to get used to it."

"I do miss your arrogance," she quipped. "But then I remember what it's like to hear some priggish man glorify himself, and it miraculously goes away."

"Witty, Granger. Real witty."

Smiling, she pulled out a chair and took a seat next to him. His eyes unwaveringly bore into hers, all of his attention unfalteringly swept towards her. Draco then, surprisingly, reached over to her shoulder and slipped off her book bag, which heavily fell to the floor. She could see her books bulging from the lid, but forgot all about it as he pushed his chair back from the table and scooted towards her, leaning in to kiss her.

She would've been all for kissing him if she didn't stand so steadfastly in her No Snogging In The Stacks grounds. She was practically cemented in it.

And in broad daylight, for Merlin's sake. Only Draco Malfoy would fail to see the menace dancing all around it.

"Draco, wait," objected Hermione.

He froze.

"What?"

"We're in the library… and everyone's—"

"That's ridiculous, Granger," he said, as he pulled back. "You honestly think someone's going to barge in here and catch us?" He asked her this as if it was the most ludicrous thing that could ever happen.

"It's better to be safe than sorry," she told him, already nervous at the thought. "And, besides, this is the _library_. The library is a sacred place, and there is _no_ snogging in sacred places."

She'd never said that aloud before, and it sounded wacky. But it was true, and if the truth was a bit wild at times, then so be it. It would stand firm and proud.

"So?" he snorted. "Some people consider the bedroom a sacred place. And you know what goes on in there."

Hermione shook her head. "Draco, please."

"I catch couples going at it in here all the time," he insisted. "And not even here, the most secluded place in the whole of the library. Over by the entrance, right out in the open, where little first years go to fetch their necessary books. Believe me, no one's going to disturb us," he said in his trademark drawl, a bit annoyed with her conservative nature.

Hermione sighed as she looked away. "I don't know…"

Why was he pushing the matter? That was what she really wanted to know. Did he honestly want to kiss her that desperately?

"Really, Granger. You can't honestly say you didn't want to kiss me when you first walked in here, or that you _don't_ want to kiss me right this moment," he said haughtily, as Hermione found herself almost drowning in the depth of his laughing silver orbs. "Because then I think I'd just have to find myself a new girlfriend," he told her, letting his infamous smirk dominate across his proud face as he leaned closer to her and cupped her chin with his hand.

"And something tells me that you'd be downright furious if I do."

Hermione quirked an eyebrow at him, amused.

"Your words may charm other girls, Draco Malfoy, but you're going to have to work harder on _this_ girl," she told him, smirking.

"Granger, I find that utterly offensive and appalling," he scoffed, retreating at his failure. "Besides," he smirked again. "There's no need for words. My gorgeous looks _alone_ make them want to melt into a puddle. My charms are undeniably effortless."

Hermione laughed, shaking her head.

"Someone's going to have to stick in a tube and suck all of that egotism out," she told him, smiling. "You are the most conceited, haughty, self-righteous bloke I've ever met in my life." She then saw the look on his face. "And that's not a compliment."

"Well, that's ridiculous, Granger," he said to her. "You can't possibly remember all the people you've met in your life, nor would they all be worthy of remembering."

A devilish smile played on her lips. "Is that a challenge, Draco Malfoy? Because if it is, then—"

"No, no," he said, shaking his head, cutting her off. "It isn't a sodding challenge and I don't want a list. Good God, is it too much to ask for? A simple kiss?"

Merlin, was it wrong to see how adorable he was when he was tortured? Realizing one kiss would do no harm; she finally relented. Her principles, however, would not be tainted. Not with one kiss.

"Fine," she told him. "One kiss."

"One kiss," he nodded.

"Promise?"

"For Merlin's sake, Granger, I think you and I both know I have at least a little bit of consideration for—"

And Hermione found that she couldn't resist, as she grinned widely and finally kissed him, cutting off his annoyed ranting despite the protests she would usually have. One kiss, right? Might as well make it one hell of a kiss.

She could feel Draco smiling against her lips as he responded, pressing his hand against the nape of her neck, twining his fingers in the curls that were rooted there. Hermione could feel her heart oddly rejoicing, singing ecstatically as she remembered that all she had thought of every time she laid her eyes on him was how fantastically he kissed her. It was ridiculous. Being in love was distracting her from all of her class work (never mind that she already knew what was being taught) and instead dazedly thought of the way the pillowy tips of his mouth molded against hers and his dizzying impact on her as if from mere contact, make her feel as if she was melting down into some flimsy, weak… puddle.

It was a weak analogy, of course, but when one is in love one cannot really think straight.

But as he continued to kiss her soundly, his sweetness and heat flooding into her mouth, his piquant, mysterious, and alluring musk filling her nose, she reminded herself that they were not to get carried away. And the fact that they were in the library. A very, very, _very_ proper place that strongly implies that snogging is prohibited whilst amongst the shelves; though many of her peers obviously choose to ignore that unwritten law.

Nevertheless, she was _not_ one of her disrespecting peers.

'_Stop,'_ her mind shouted at her, as she wrapped her arms around him, scooting her chair closer towards his. '_Stop! You're in the library! The sacred place! Have you gone absolutely mad?_'

However, it seemed as if her willpower had all wilted away from his yearning and passionate kisses. She had to say, snogging with him was far better than studying with Ernie, hands down.

'_Library! Stop! You have to ask him about Snape! There are people here! They could walk in any minute and discover your dirty secret, you basketcase!'_

Amazingly, that got her to stop.

She pulled away, panting heavily, as Draco handsomely smirked at her with his teasing, bee-stung lips.

"Now, is it just me, or was this place just made loads more appealing?" he said to her.

Hermione laughed, shaking her head.

"Shut up," she said, trying to adapt her usual stern, scolding tone, but the way he was looking at her did not help at all. "What we did was wrong," she told him, trying to be serious.

Draco leaned back, untangling his hand from her hair. He raised one silver brow at her.

"You, Hermione Granger, have now just been made a hypocrite. Congratulations. And, I must say, it was an absolute pleasure to partake in the ceremony. You're a fierce kisser. Especially in libraries, particularly this one."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Shut up, Draco. You provoked me. And, besides, this is just once. Who's to say it'll happen again?" she told him.

"It _will_ happen again, if _I_ have anything to say about it."

"We're Heads. We're not supposed to tolerate this sort of… intimate actions in the library. Nor anywhere else. It would be _wrong_."

Draco snorted. "How do you live, Granger? You won't get shagged if you're buried in books and actually abiding by those mad rules, now, will you?"

Hermione glared at him, crossing her arms.

Draco smiled, chuckling faintly before leaning in to give her a light kiss on the mouth. He pressed his lips softly against hers before pulling back. "I was only joking," he told her, silently laughing at her serious expression. He knew very well that she wanted nothing but to be even a tad bit upset with him right now. "Of course you're going to get shagged. Whether you're buried in books or following those dull rules or not. Hopefully, by me."

"Well, that's comforting," she said dryly. "But I didn't come in here to snog or to talk about me getting shagged, all right?"

"Why not? Both are two very alluring and fun topics."

Hermione gave him another look.

Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Fine," he said. "What is it?"

Suddenly, Hermione felt a bit nervous. She looked him in the eye as he patiently watched her, waiting.

"It's about Snape."

"Well, what about him?" he asked, sounding vaguely bored, yet his eyes were still on hers.

"It's just that… he's been absent a lot lately, and I was wondering, since you're in his House and all, if you—"

"Know anything about it? Sorry to disappoint you, Granger, but you've no luck here," he nonchalantly told her. Almost a bit too nonchalantly. "Snape never tells us much about his absences. And, needless to say, no one cares enough to ask."

"And why not?" asked Hermione, curious.

Draco shrugged. "If it's out of worry, Snape'll bark at you and tell you to mind your own business. And if it's out of anything else, well… he's always been the barking sort, if you ask me. He doesn't fancy the thought of someone trying to pry into his business." Draco gave her a questioning look. "Why?"

"Nothing," Hermione quickly said, her eyes flickering down to her feet and breaking their eye contact. "I was just… concerned, that's all. He's never missed so many lessons before."

Draco remained silent, giving her an odd look, as if contemplating if she was really telling him the truth. Hesitantly, Hermione opened her mouth to ask him the other matter that was making her stomach flitter about like butterflies in the queen's garden.

"Just answer this," she told him, rising her gaze to meet his again. His eyes suddenly dimmed in seriousness. "Even if your hate for Harry runs deeper than I could ever imagine, he's still one of my best friends, and if his safety was endangered, or anyone else's… you'd tell me, right?" she asked him, swallowing hard, searching his eyes earnestly.

Oh no. She did not just go there. He could not believe she was asking him this! Sure, it was reasonable and it showed just how sickeningly devoted she was to Lord Potter, but this was ridiculous! And they had been so fine acting as if her friends had been wiped off from the face of the universe – until now. Of course he was going to get angry. What was he? He certainly was not Gandhi!

"What are you saying?" he asked her darkly, the amusement and laughter from his expression fading very quickly. In record time, perhaps. "Are you saying that I might have something to do with—"

"No, no," Hermione said, shaking her head furiously. "No, that's not what I'm saying at all. It's just, considering the fact that your father is—"

"Granger, I'm not a Death Eater," he told her firmly and somewhat quite angrily. "Even though there's been some rubbish controversy about that, I'm not, and I don't plan to be. There was a time when I would've done anything to be one, but that's long gone and I don't expect it will ever return."

"That's not what I'm trying to say," she told him in a beseeching tone.

"Then what _are_ you trying to say?" he asked her, his dark steely eyes boring into hers.

"I—" she faltered, swallowing hard to make the dryness in her mouth disappear, "I just need some reassurance, that's all. The Dark Lord wants Harry dead… and there's been some speculation, about if he's to use… you know, Ron or me, to get to him. And I just don't want to risk anything. I just want to know that… even though you might want Harry dead too, that if there was any possibility, any possibility at all, of something happening to him, that'd you come to me and tell me."

Draco remained silent, a grim look on his face.

"Draco?" she whispered. He looked as if he was about to kill her, and that frightened her.

"Granger, I think you very well know that if your safety was concerned, I'd do my best to try to protect you," he said rather sharply, as if offended and angered by her question.

Hermione winced from the icy tone of his words. "Draco, I—"

"And if it's what you want, I'll let you know beforehand if my father or any of his mates are planning to murder him and then slide his severed head onto a pole to showcase him to the whole of the wizarding world. But I'll be honest right now: I was never fond of your friend. And I don't intend on changing that. Your safety is the only one I'll be concerned about. I think we all know that Hero Boy can take care of himself."

Hermione inhaled sharply, threatened by the intense frost in his words and the cold tint in his gaze that was now piercing into her. It was obvious to her that this was not his favorite subject to converse about, and she felt slightly regretful… but only slightly. She had to at least have a clue where his loyalties lie, right?

Hermione knew that this was all she could receive from him. He was Draco Malfoy, after all. She realized she didn't really expect anything much kinder.

"All right, then," she said softly, still rather stunned though she did not exactly know why. "Thank you. And…" she said, swallowing, "I just have to tell you, likewise. I will also let you know if your life is in danger… and I'll do my best to try to protect you, though I doubt I can be much help, considering you're probably much stronger than I am, and more quick to your senses. I have a feeling you can take quite good care of yourself, as well."

Draco didn't say a word as Hermione sighed, looking at him pleadingly.

"I apologize," she quietly said to him. "I didn't mean to offend. Honestly. I was just… being an idiot, that's all," she said sadly.

"I'm just ever so thrilled you brought this up in the middle of our snogging session," he remarked dryly.

Hermione was confused. "What snogging session?"

The look on his face was instantly mischievous.

"_This_ snogging session," he said, grabbing her face and kissing her before she could grasp a book from a table and smack him on the head with it.

oooo

Hermione arrived beside Harry and Ron slightly out of breath just as they were about to leave the library for their next class.

"About bloody time, Hermione," Ron told her.

Hermione simply nodded, not saying a word and rather concentrated on patting down her hair with her hands. Harry noticed her fidgety and quick motions as she ran her fingers through her curls and tried her best to contain her ragged breaths.

"Where were you?" Harry inquired. He tried not to let the suspicion show through in his voice though he knew it wouldn't necessarily be his fault if it did.

"Studying," she answered in a more composed voice.

She looked up at Harry and Harry could clearly from the pink tint in her cheeks that she was flushed. Her lips were also a bit… well, swollen, from what he could see. A secret anger began to boil inside him. "Where?"

"With Ernie," she replied, avoiding his eyes, fumbling with the clasp of his book bag.

"I went over to Ernie and asked him if you studied with him," he said quietly and slowly as Hermione noticeably froze. "He said that you hadn't even come by."

Hermione licked her lips, still tasting Draco's alluring and addictive tang in her mouth, as she swallowed hard, trying to overcome the stone that had been suddenly lodged in her throat.

Damn it. He had stolen the book from her before she could hit him again. Was it her fault that he had pounced on her mouth and she had been all too preoccupied to fend him off?

"Um… right," she said, materializing a quick lie. "Actually, I forgot to tell you," she said quickly, looking up at Harry to meet his eyes. "I changed my mind about studying with him. I got myself an aisle and I studied by myself. It was nice."

"What about the notes you said you needed?"

"I got them."

"From who?"

"A-Andrew," she lied. "The Hufflepuff. I was surprised to find that he's a rather fantastic note-taker."

'_You are such a sodding liar. He's a terrible note-taker, and you know it.'_

'_Exactly. Let's just hope Harry doesn't.'_

Harry nodded, and Hermione was relieved to see that he wasn't keen on asking any more questions.

But as they made their way out of the library, Harry could see a certain individual in the corner of his eye, as if taunting him.

Harry turned around, curious to see just who it was.

Unsurprisingly, it was Draco Malfoy who was smirking at him proudly, in all of his pure-blood, Slytherin glory.

Harry resisted the strong urge to punch his face in.

But he did silently vow to invoke violence on him if he didn't watch his boundaries.

Gritting his teeth and tightly clenching his fists, he walked out of the library with his two oblivious friends and his archenemy not far behind.

**REVIEW!**


	28. Very Short Skirts

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: No! I _don't_ own Harry Potter for the bloody 31st time, so stop asking!

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Thanks to all of the gorgeous reviewers and readers, my very awesome cousin Jordan, and my beta Jojo who is always trying extra hard to get my chapters back to me for you guys. And I would also like to thank Mr. Moses, who introduced me to the wonderful line that I used in and inspired this chapter: "It's just like a woman's skirt – long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to keep it interesting."

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**Very Short Skirts**

On this particular day, Hermione found herself trekking up to the Gryffindor common room. She had been summoned by way of a very disoriented owl that had almost smacked right into her when she had gone to open her window. She then discovered that the letter had been to inform her that she was needed by a very distressed young girl in the girls' dormitories.

Apparently, Ginny Weasley had experimented on some of her skirts (trying to shorten them even more than they had already been, she guessed, and had a feeling she was rather spot on) and was in desperate need of a skirt to wear for tomorrow's classes since her spells had… backfired a bit, or so she had vaguely explained in her owl. And so, fulfilling her duty as one of Ginny's best friends, she had halted her studying, grabbed an extra pleated skirt from her wardrobe, and headed on down here.

Fortunately, Ginny had caught her when she was alone and aching for a stroll outside her room. Though her room was massive and spacious, there was no denying the fact that she had felt somewhat feverish and claustrophobic as she was steadily heading towards her non-stop, third hour of studying.

Draco was preoccupied with some business with his Head of House and so could not partake in her study-until-you-drop-dead marathon, which was a drag. Studying with Draco made burying herself in books much better, but that fact was not just based on that they couldn't seem to spend a straight two hours alone in a room without engaging in a rather satisfying activity that kept their mouths and tongues far too busy for anymore faux-bickering and banter. She realized she missed him. And quite an awful lot.

As dependent and weak as it may sound, she found herself functioning much more frantically and frenziedly without him. It was then that she realized that she had to spend more time by herself to prevent herself from being some overly clingy spaz, and though that thought had descended with pain, she knew that she shouldn't become so dangerously dependent towards him. After all, she was a strong, clever, hardworking woman. Becoming entirely reliant on someone – most especially a male that she was romantically involved with – was a death sentence.

Hermione sighed heavily as she heard the echoes of her shoes against the smooth floors of the seemingly quiet castle. She could see the portrait of the Fat Lady just a short distance ahead as she continued to ascend the long flights of stairs.

There was no denying that she had been quite curious about Draco's business with Snape. She wouldn't have been on a regular basis since Heads were usually called upon their Head of House, but there was something in Draco's voice and a flicker in his eyes that struck a chord inside her when he had informed her of his planned absence this evening. Something like… urgency. A sort of threatening, life-and-death urgency that had a stunning, hazing affect on her. Even now she couldn't help but wonder about it. She thought that maybe her eyes were merely playing tricks on her, but there was an obstinate nagging in her conscience that told her otherwise.

She had wanted to ask, simply to clear things up, but refused the urge and simply bit it down as she had simply walked towards her room, his soft kiss still lingering on her lips, stepping into what seemed to be her prison cell for the night.

She then dove headfirst into her textbooks.

He didn't tell her when he would return. That had seemed to slip his mind in all his hurry, clearly. And it also possibly didn't occur to him, either, that she had been looking forward to spending some time with him after those long, awful hours of sitting next to two adolescent boys going on about more Quidditch tactics like it was the new disease spreading around.

Hermione was quite bothered by this, but only mentally sighed and muttered to herself again about her dependency and clinginess. But was it really her fault that each time they departed from each other he only left her wanting more? And that when she thought she could go on acting like her normal Hermione Granger-self, there was always a bubble on the side of her brain that only consisted of irksome thoughts of him that really, _desperately_ needed to go away? She liked to think not. She'd never been this way before. Maybe – hopefully – it was just a phase.

Intoxicating her mind with such sinful and distracting desires, really, she cursed herself for not knowing better and earlier that Draco Malfoy would corrupt her mind in such an errant way. _Damn_ those Slytherins. The evil, cunning works of their devious minds.

It was absolutely unfair that she was the one suffering from all this.

The Fat Lady beamed at her as she stopped at the portrait.

"Well, I certainly haven't seen you in a while, Miss Granger," she greeted her pleasantly. "I rather miss you stepping through my portrait hole every now and then. Everyone does say no one could scold that Ronald Weasley better than you could." She chortled happily. "Ah, those were the times. You two would just bicker and bicker… it brings back fond memories from my childhood…." she trailed on dreamily as Hermione smiled nervously.

She hastily, but with her usual etiquette, said the password, "_Meloris Evanesco_," before she quickly stepped in, finding herself inside the depths of the luxurious, warm and richly-colored Gryffindor common room. She sighed again as she looked around, remembering that she hadn't stopped by this place in what seemed like ages.

She felt a small contented smile crawl across her face as she spotted a fire dancing playfully inside the hearth, feeling a rush of memories flood through her mind. She still remembered in vivid detail their years before when she, Harry, Ron and occasionally Ginny and Seamus, would sit around the common room and simply relax, even playing a few games of Wizard's Chess (of which Ron has been named the "Unassailable, Invincible King" of) or Exploding Snap. It had always been one of those times she wished she could abandon her firm ways and see life the way her housemates did – so carefree and happy-go-lucky. She envied their constant cheerfulness, if anything, though she did happen to scorn them at times.

Mostly and predictably, Hermione would insist on just listening along and not really participating in their games and would instead curl up on one of the couches with a book. But that mere fact didn't mean that she didn't let loose on some nights. Oh, yes, far be it from some people's expectations of her and her supposedly "dull" activities, Hermione Granger was one of the masters of Exploding Snap, though that would be considered utmost surprising to most of her peers.

She was a legend amongst her housemates for it (and also that day she had gotten pissing drunk on one too many glasses of butterbeer after a winning Quidditch match and had beaten everyone at the game whilst bubbly and intoxicated out of her mind) but no word ever went out about it to the other Houses of her secret talent.

She had guessed it was nothing all that special – anyone could beat Ron at Exploding Snap and then watch him explode with anger and a fitful determination for a rematch, and so she thought nothing of it. She did miss that look on his face, however, all red in the face because of annoyance, fuming out of the ears and madly gritting his teeth. It really was a remarkable sight. Maybe even one worthy of the pages of the National Geographic.

Hermione's wistful eyes roamed the spacious room, her lips curved into a dazed smile, almost drowning in her nostalgia and reminiscence.

It was really something, this room. So many memories – too many memories, in fact, that it brought a slight pinch to her heart when she thought of them. Because each year, she knew, this room was being coated layer after layer of them, never-ceasing its strenuous but natural cycle. She thought that by now there must be billions of memories in here, maybe hidden in some places, like tiny pieces to a jigsaw puzzle, strewn across the room, fallen into cracks, hidden behind or underneath the big, shadowy furniture. This room, after all those years of laughter, sadness, cheerfulness, or bad circumstance, now had a life of its own, running merely on series after series of memories.

But as Hermione stood motionless in the middle of the room, dazedly taking in her surroundings and contemplating about the endless possibilities of what it had withstood through the ages, a figure had descended the stone staircase from the boys' dormitories and was now bemusedly observing her.

He cleared his throat loudly, and Hermione literally jumped out of her consuming thoughts. She looked to her side and, finding the culprit of her surprise and thumping heartbeats, she laughed.

"Harry," she chuckled softly, clutching her chest on instinct and reflex from her leaping heart. "Was it necessary to scare me like that?"

Harry grinned at her, his book bag on his shoulder.

"Sorry," he said to her, as he quietly laid it down on the couch. "You seemed out of it for a minute there, Hermione. You were starting to frighten me standing so still and quiet like that. Anyway, what are you doing here? Are you looking for someone?" he asked, sitting down, his eyes still on her in curiosity.

Hermione sighed, still faintly smiling before heading down towards him and taking the vacant spot on the couch to his right. She held her skirt on her lap as she answered him.

"I'm here for Ginny. She owled me and informed me of her skirt emergency," she said, patting the fabric, smiling at him.

"Oh," said Harry. "Well, she went up to the Owlery with Ron some time ago to owl something to their mum. Apparently, Pig's gone MIA for the second time this month and Ron's getting frustrated. She'll be back soon, though. Ginny never likes to be in a room full of restless owls for a long amount of time."

"Well, all right then," said Hermione. "I can wait. I've been studying for a bit and I needed a break, anyway. It's been quite a long while since I've been here," she said, looking into the fireplace with her smile still in place. "I miss it."

Harry returned her smile. "Yeah, well, it misses you too," he said. "No other person spends as much time here studying like you did, and it gets rather lonely sometimes."

"I bet it does," she said, her eyes twinkling. Her fingers writhed in the warmth radiating from the fireplace. "But, onto other matters, what are you working on?" she asked as she curiously looked over at him. "You brought your book bag. I assumed it was because you were going to work on an assignment."

"Ah, yes," said Harry, sliding out his textbook from his book bag beside him and placing it on his lap, along with a scroll of parchment. "I just remembered you could smell coursework like a bloodhound."

Hermione beamed at him. "How nice of you to notice, Mister Potter," she said playfully, before he started to explain to her.

"It's just Snape's new task for us. You know, that potion we're to make individually that will determine about thirty percent of our scores. To be honest, I'm… nervous. Making potions by myself was never my strong point, as it was always yours. You were the master of concocting the potions in our group."

"Oh, you'll do just fine, Harry," she told him. "Don't worry."

Harry sighed. "I hope so, Hermione. But with training, it's been hard to focus sometimes. The other day, I almost found myself putting some boomslang inside the Paralyzing Potion before you stopped me. If you hadn't suddenly snatched it out of my hand before I would have dropped it in, I could have burned our whole table to a crisp. And, not to mention, a whole load of points deducted from our House and a month's worth of detention from the old grouch himself."

Hermione placed her hand atop of Harry's and squeezed reassuringly. Her eyes intently searched his, earnest and sincere.

"I know it's hard, Harry, especially with everything weighing on you… but you're going to do just fine," she reassured him softly. "You are. I don't have a single doubt about it. But all you have to do is keep going. Don't let Snape intimidate you. You're going to do just fine, just like your other years before. The last thing you want to do right now is begin to fret."

Harry let out a heavy sigh, before he gave Hermione an honest smile.

"Thanks, Hermione," he said quietly. "Ron's not nearly quite as good with pep-talks and encouragement like you are… obviously."

Hermione concurred, letting go of his hand.

"But… there's something I have to ask you," he told her, suddenly feeling dominant and dry knots clustering up in his throat.

Her eyes darkened as her mirthful expression faded quickly from the somber and serious tone in his voice. "What is it, Harry?" she whispered, worry flickering in her deep brown eyes.

"Well, I just… I realized that…." Suddenly, Harry shook his head and stood up, as Hermione's eyes followed him. "No, that isn't the right approach at all," he muttered to himself, distressfully running a hand through his raven hair.

"Harry?" she asked questioningly.

"It's just that, Hermione, since… since…. All right, then, let's approach it from this way: you're my friend, right, Hermione?"

Hermione was startled by his question.

"Yes," she answered, though hesitantly because of her confusion of where this question was going to lead. "Yes, of course I'm your friend."

"And friends tell each other things, am I right? The truth? So then there shouldn't be a reason to hide things from each other?"

Hermione nodded, suddenly panicking, not knowing where this was going. But his hurried, urgent, and even almost frantic, disorganized words sent her heart into a nervous convulsion. He had this dim look in his eyes that she recognized he could only have when something was deeply troubling him.

But as he opened his mouth, trying to form words but only managing a stuttering silence in all his speechlessness, she could have sworn she'd heard the world "relationship" and she was struck with what seemed like a harsh, cold bolt of lightning from the sky.

Her eyes widened. Her fingers dug into the fabric of the folded skirt on her lap, wrinkling the pleats. Her breath froze in the midst of her throat, and her mouth made the transition of being perfectly and usually moist to being a dry, thirsting desert. Her heart was paused, dangling on the edge of a full beat.

She didn't know how she knew this, but he knew. He knew. About her and Draco.

It was insane to actually believe it, but she wouldn't put it beyond him. Harry was a smart bloke if he put his mind to it long and hard enough. Their past six years here that had been filled by the terror that was Voldemort had left behind enough riddles each time – how had she not known he was going to catch on?

This sent Hermione into a fit of panic. Of course, as she added everything up in her head while he was still trying to come up with the perfectly legitimate way to ask her about her relationship, she realized that he would've been a fool not to.

Her constant happiness, her more-than-usual missed opportunities to spend some more time with her friends, the fact that the library was getting quite dusty because of her long absence from there…. and the list went on. She mentally smacked herself on the head.

'_Oh Merlin!'_ she shouted at herself inside her head. _'I've been so utterly foolish! What the devil am I going to say to him now?'_

"Anyway, what I mean to say is, Hermione, that I've noticed something odd about you lately, you've been quite distant, and Ron's seen it too…. Is there something you're not telling us? Are you…."

Hermione psychologically braced herself for his words or questions or harsh accusations. But, to her luck, he never got to finish his faltering sentence for Ginny had suddenly come skipping in through the portrait hole.

"Ginny!" Hermione suddenly exclaimed, getting to her feet, silently thanking God for her perfect, impeccable timing. "I'm so glad you're back! I brought the skirt," she said enthusiastically, raising it up for her to see.

Ginny beamed at her. "Fantastic, Hermione, I knew you wouldn't let me down. Now, come on, you've done enough waiting, let's head up to the dormitories. You don't mind if I steal her away from you tonight, do you, Harry?" she asked him.

Hermione mutely begged for him to say he didn't.

Fortunately, again, God had decided to bestow upon her some mercy.

"No," replied Harry, though there was a hint of disappointment in his voice, shaking his head. "I don't mind."

Ginny neared Hermione and grabbed her arm, looking at Harry.

"Are you sure?" she asked him.

Harry nodded. "I'm sure. Now, go on. I've got to finish my Potions assignment, anyway."

Ginny squealed, beaming. "Excellent! Thanks, Harry!" she said excitedly, before dragging Hermione off to her room.

But as he watched them disappear in the spiral structure of their stone stairs to the dormitories, he silently cursed himself for his clumsiness with words.

oooo

"Ginny… you've…. Wow," Hermione said, flabbergasted, looking at the completely burnt remains of her skirts. She fingered the dark and fried seams, feeling pity for each poor ruined piece of attire.

Ginny sighed, looking forlornly at it as well.

"I know. I was really beat up about it. More than you can imagine. It's just that I was trying out this new spell that Parvati told me that would keep my skirts' length just as magicked them to be, you know, with my regular spell. I just got tired of always having to enact the same spell on them and trying to get them to my estimated perfect length after being washed. It really was rather bothersome."

"Ginny, the skirts' original lengths aren't all that horrible, you know," Hermione commented thoughtfully.

Ginny scoffed. She smiled at her, a playful grin on her face.

"Well, you know me," she said, picking up her toasted skirts from her bed. "I like change. Especially the sort of change that makes Seamus' eyes bulge out of their sockets and stay with me that extra five minutes in the broom closet," she winked, before Hermione laughed aloud. "Besides, it won't be all that short. I couldn't possibly pull off that look of swaying my hips with just an inch of fabric as a skirt. It's just as they say: 'Long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to keep it interesting.' " Her smile was one an impish pixie would have after a mortal sabotage.

"You're devious," she told her, still faintly laughing.

Ginny shrugged in return.

"It has its rewards. And, you just may never know," she slyly smirked at her. "You just may be thanking me later on for my skirt-shortening spells."

Hermione shook her head, still laughing. "I highly doubt that, Ginny."

"Like I said, you never know." Ginny folded them up neatly and handed them to Hermione, who took them into her hands with great care. "Thanks again, by the way, for agreeing to clean up my awful mess," she said, looking down at the battered remains of her skirts.

"It's no problem. I've got some free time on my hands. I'll have these back to you tomorrow evening."

"Thanks, Hermione," grinned Ginny. "You won't regret it. I promise."

oooo

And so, as Hermione was always true to her word, Ginny received her skirts back in fine – or, actually, fin_er _– condition the next evening, just after their classes. After thanking her more than the necessary amount, Ginny went off with a happy bounce in her step to the library to fetch her needed books for an essay in Charms.

Hermione then returned to her own room almost solemnly, remembering that she was to be without Draco's company again tonight. More business had come up for him and Snape, and even though he had kissed her soundly in the morning – his kiss thoroughly reflecting on how much he had missed her (though he still did not attempt to tell her verbally) – it didn't do much for Hermione as she trekked the lonely way back to the Heads corridor.

Her lips tingled as she thought of his kiss, and her heart slumped in mild depression when she thought of being alone in the confines of her room, yet again.

She even cynically wondered if Draco was enjoying Snape's presence more than he enjoyed hers. But then she just sighed and shook her head at the thought, considering the fact that even he seemed to hold a fair amount of distaste towards their Potions professor, though she had never attempted to ask herself why. She guessed it was because she was glad they shared a fair ground in something other than their feelings and relationship.

But at the present moment, horrible as it may be, she was also questioning if they still had a fairground on their feelings. It did not seem as if he was missing her the required amount while he was gone doing God-only-knows-what with one of the most despicable people in the planet while she was stuck here, scornful and bitter. Clearly, though it pricked her heart, his matters with Snape left no room for him to pencil in time for her for at least a good twenty, thirty minutes.

It really was the strangest thing. First, their heinous, now random professor was disappearing on unsystematic days, and now he was demanding all of her boyfriend's time! Really, it made Hermione viciously want to spit in his face. She was feeling quite annoyed, bothered… and jealous. Well, she did have a perfectly legit reason, right? He was her _boyfriend_. That should obviously count for something.

But as she slid her fingers over the smooth fabric of the skirt she had leant to Ginny the day before, frowning slightly, she told herself that she should have seen it coming. His busyness. They were nearing the end of the year quite rapidly, after all, and she would have been a fool not to expect him to have some sort of business, especially considering the fact that he was a Malfoy.

Hermione tried to avoid thinking of the end of the year at all costs, in the terms of her and Draco. As ridiculous as it just might sound, she did feel that painful closing, swelling feeling build up in her throat when she had tried to before. She just couldn't do it. She didn't want to face reality just yet. Right here, right now was just perfect, and she didn't want to leave it behind to walk into the jagged mouth of a fierce monster.

For now, for the absolute first time this year, she felt as if she was… completely, and wholly happy. And she didn't think fate had the right to steal it away from her just yet, not when she had just found it.

Hermione let out a weighty, deep breath from her lips, feeling as if her heart was suspended above an ocean full of sharp-toothed sharks and sea monsters, looking ahead and seeing nothing but a dark, empty passageway to greet her.

oooo

Hermione cursed under her breath as she quickly grabbed a skirt from her wardrobe and slipped it on, all the while still trying to button up her blouse. Her hands worked quickly and hurriedly, but they fumbled in her grit and anxiousness.

"I can't believe I bloody overslept," she sharply muttered to herself, at last succeeding in fastening all of her buttons before merely just slipping on her robes. She swiftly knotted her tie before running her hands through her hair, still mumbling to herself. Finally, she buckled on her Mary Jane's, grabbed her book bag, and then sped out the door.

She ran to the Great Hall, and since the way there seemed unusually lengthy to her this morning, slowed into a brisk power walk as she still determinedly tried to tame her curls with her bare hands. Her pace was constant even though her body was sending her physical messages that it was far too early in the morning to be sprinting about in the castle or exerting such force on her legs.

But thankfully, she made it to the hall without dying and seated herself at her usual spot, taking a minute or two to calm her ragged breaths.

Harry, Ginny, and even a greeting from Seamus welcomed her to the cheery Gryffindor table.

"What happened to you, Hermione?" asked Ron, looking at her with curious eyes and an unmistakable smudge of blueberry across his cheek.

"I overslept," she replied, now finding herself in a more composed state.

"Really?" he asked, his question muffled by the muffin he had practically stuffed inside his mouth. "You've never been one to oversleep. Ever."

"Leave the poor girl alone, Ronald," Ginny scolded him. "Everyone's allowed to oversleep."

"Not Hermione," he argued. "She never allows herself to do anything fun."

Hermione glared at him, grabbing her usual fruit breakfast from a platter in the center of the table.

"Sod off, Ron," she sharply told him, scowling, before he promptly shut up and continued to talk on with Harry and Dean.

Ginny shook her head.

"Boys," Hermione heard her say under her breath, before stabbing her fork into her breakfast.

oooo

Potions came and entered with even more chaos. It didn't seem as if Snape was in a good mood today either, although he never really was. The thing was: he was in an even worse mood, though it was remarkable to her at how she could possibly recognize the difference.

They quickly seated as the shadowy, dark figure took his stand with a menacing scowl on his sour face.

"Today," he snarled, his voice rumbling with a silky but cutting edge in the room, "is the start of the brewing of your _Expugnabilis_ Potion, a hefty and brutal thirty percent cut of your end-of-term scores. You will be concocting this potion for an exact four days, and all of the necessary supplies will be provided for you. This potion, however," he said, stepping out from behind his desk and nearing them, looming with a dangerous, bitter aura surrounding his tall form. Hermione had the thought that he frighteningly resembled a Dementor. "Is to be done correctly and to be at its perfection if you have the wish to pass my class. _Individually_." He narrowed his eyes at each of them.

"No partners, no helping, no talking. If any one of you fails to follow these rules, points will be deducted, detentions will be distributed, and if I find that you have disrupted this class immeasurably, you will be given a failing grade."

A gasp could be heard from the back of the room, as even Hermione herself seemed to stiffen from the graveness of their newest project. "And," he said, pausing as a nasty smirk began to slink across his face. "No wands."

This caused more than fear. It caused confusion throughout the whole class. Immediately, regardless of Snape's freshly established rules, they began to mumble and chat frantically, which seemed to infuriate their professor even more.

"_Quiet!"_ he roared, and the whole room fell into the lapse of fearful, rigid silence. "Let me repeat that again. _No_ _wands_. Your wands will be tucked away safely in your book bags, and if there is even a _single_ swish or a flick, I will confiscate your wand until the brewing of this potion is finished. Is that understood?"

Predictably, not one single response met his question; just as Snape had made it obvious that that was the way he preferred it.

"Good. You may start. The required supplies are listed in your textbook on page four hundred seventy-nine, and, I will remind you again, this is to be done _individually_."

The former-dungeon was filled with concentration and shuffles of movement and clinks of supplies.

Hermione properly tucked away her wand in her book bag as she soon started to work. Her mind was set and she was biting her lip in determination and focus as she started to grind the Cruspetal leaves, her supplies neatly organized on the wooden surface in front of her.

But suddenly, just as she had scattered a pinch of the powder from the leaves and was trying to pour in one-third of a cup of the specially needed oil into her cauldron, Ron accidentally elbowed her and caused the oil to spill all over the front of her robes.

Hermione gasped as she stared in horror of the mess on her dark robes. Slimy, wet, and thick liquid that smelled somewhat like rotting carrots coated the exterior of the fabric and was quickly seeping in. Hermione knew that if she didn't do something soon, her shirt would be drenched as well, considering that she had made the very bad choice of not wearing her jumper today.

But just as she was searching for her wand in her book bag, she came to a dead stop.

"_No_ _wands_," his threatening voice echoed inside of her head.

Hermione silently groaned. This was just perfect. She had overslept, was late to breakfast, and now had foul-smelling oil poured all over herself. This was turning out to be _just_ perfect.

Because of her stubbornness, Hermione would have usually taken out her wand and said a quick spell to clean up the mess on her clothes, but needless to say, she was not feeling up to testing her professor's limits today. She knew that she would get in trouble even if she had used her wand for such a measly thing because Severus sodding Snape was an uptight git who seriously needed to get himself a new hobby instead of his current (and lasting) one of bullying the Gryffindor House.

And so, as she gritted her teeth and swore mentally at her clumsy tablemate, she got her hand out of her book bag, empty-handed, and hurriedly slipped off her robes.

She folded it before setting it aside, sparing only one glance to check her shirt if the oil had marred it in any way (which it didn't, thank Merlin) and getting back to preparing her potion.

She did feel a slight coldness as she shifted her legs moments later, trying to focus on thoroughly reading the instructions on the horsespoon vein in her textbook, but only ignored it and passed it off as some sort of draft that had entered the classroom.

That assumption of hers was not too far off at all, since their Potions classroom was indeed a former dungeon (and still was, to the opinion of the majority of her peers and herself) and welcomed unwelcome bitter drafts like close relatives who came visiting and bearing gifts.

Fortunately, Hermione got through the rest of the period without another clumsy accident forced upon her by her completely clueless friend and succeeded in following step after step of instructions of the advanced potion-making of their _Expugnabilis _Potion. The once excruciatingly slow, taunting, ticking hands of time progressed in a more constant, steady and rapid pace as she soon heard Snape's oily drawl bark at them to stop and she looked up to discover that more time had passed than she had realized. It was now time for them to leave for lunch in the Great Hall.

Sighs could be heard all around the room as he ordered them to quickly return their materials and store their cauldrons in the back storeroom before they left. Hermione felt relieved to escape from their drafty Potions classroom as she gathered her supplies and carried them into her hands, making her way to store them somewhere safe.

However, as she was walking, a bit preoccupied with the roots, herbs, and things she held inside of her arms, she did feel more than one pair of eyes follow her, suddenly making her greatly uncomfortable. She looked around quickly, catching some of her peers gaping at her, before she looked down and only found her armful of things staring back at her. She observed her shirt quickly, taking in the familiar view of her Gryffindor-striped tie, but besides that there was no other reason for them to stare, was there? Except, of course, if that horrible oil had damaged her shirt, but she had checked almost thoroughly and was assured that her shirt wasn't the case.

She quickly set her cauldron and materials in the storeroom, bumping into a few people who still gawked at her, but merely just shook her head and hurried back to her seat.

She quickly sat down, as even Ron and Harry seemed to be giving her strange glances.

"What?" she asked them, suspiciously. "What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?"

She was going to be _this_ close to hexing someone if they didn't tell her what the cause of their gawking was!

"Hermione, your—" Harry started to say, before Snape suddenly spoke out and cut him off.

"I advise all of you to look over your directives tonight. Some of your potions will be randomly tested by some of your peers in this very room… and we wouldn't want anything… unfortunate, to happen to them, now, would we?" he said almost evilly, his upper lip curling in dark amusement.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

Snape gave them all his usual look before he dismissed them, all of them rising to their feet and gathering their things.

But before Hermione could ask Harry what he had been trying to say as they headed out into the hall, Ron was already chatting his head off about some funny event that had happened with Seamus. Hermione, confused, took a swift glance at her garments, finding nothing wrong with it at all, before she was bumped into so firmly that she could have sworn it was on purpose.

She looked up and met a pair of light gray eyes, unknowingly sucking in a breath, indeed knowing that it had been intentional. He smirked at her before he pointed his gaze in the direction to her right. She instantly looked to where he was looking at and realized what he meant as she discovered that he was trying to dot out the old, deserted Ancient Runes classroom. She suddenly felt butterflies erupt and occupy the hollow of her stomach. She nodded, as, in a quick half-second, he was gone and lost amidst the sea of her hungry peers.

She hurried to catch up with Harry, forgetting all about those looks people had been shooting at her during Potions, grasping his arm to stop him.

Noticing the sudden pressure on his arm, Harry halted and turned to ask the reason why she had stopped him.

"I forgot something, back at Potions," she told him almost breathlessly, which was entirely due to the fact that her heart was beating incredibly faster than usual. Harry nodded as Hermione released his arm. "So, I'll see you in a bit, okay? I just need to go pick it up."

"Hurry up, Harry! I'm _famished_!" called out Ron. "It took all my willpower not to eat the ingredients for that Expuganabilis potion we had to make!"

"All right, Hermione. See you in the Great Hall," he said before turning back to a grumbling Ron and joining the swarm of starving students mobbing towards the hall for their midday meal.

She sighed, staying behind, slowly walking backwards until every student had departed from the corridor. She then hastily walked to the classroom Draco had slipped into.

Surprisingly, as she stepped inside, she was oh-so-pleasantly greeted by being roughly pushed up against the flat surface of the wall and kissed viciously.

Her eyes widened at first, shocked and stunned, before she came to realize the surging hunger he expressed to her in the way he feverishly captured her mouth with his. On reflex and instinct, she pressed her hands against his chest, trying to push him away, but he simply grabbed her hands and led them to wrap around him before winding his own arms around her waist and pulling her closer to him.

He fervently and nearly drowned her in his kisses as she responded by doing what was required of her to stay alive – kissing him back.

The front of his hair slightly tickled the side of her face, but that ceased to matter as he slid one of his hands into her frenzy of curls, bringing her face closer to him. She could feel her pulse leaping inside her veins, pounding, rushing to pump more blood through her system as she felt her whole body warm from his affect on her. Slowly and unknowingly, her hands unclasped the button of his robes, the heavy material falling down to his feet with a silent rustle.

His fingers clenched against her shirt, causing it to wrinkle and ride up, his hand accidentally coming into contact with the bare flesh of her back. She kissed him furiously, thrumming energy flowing throughout her whole body, compressing and dancing against her bones, producing a roaring blend of ragged breathing, pounding heartbeats, and pulsating suspense to bellow like the sea inside her ears.

"Good God, Granger," he heatedly whispered to her as she smothered him in kisses, trying to grasp the front of his Oxford shirt but only succeeding in catching his tie and using that to pull him closer to her. He then left her mouth and started to kiss her neck, whispering into her ear. "You can't possibly know how much I wanted to tackle you down when I saw you and your scandalous, little, skimpy skirt."

Hermione's eyes bolted open.

"_What_?" she asked, enraged and taken aback, violently thrown out of her passionate desires before she pushed him away.

He stumbled back, giving her a surprised, curious look as she quickly looked down and her eyes widened to the size of Muggle golf balls.

"Oh… _no_," she gasped, too shocked for any more words.

He was right. Scandalous and skimpy. That was the definition of her skirt today. Hovering an estimate of a dangerous seven to eight above her knees was the ridiculously short piece of fabric she once called a skirt. Apparently, in all of her blind hurry this morning, she had chosen the skirt she had leant to Ginny the day before. And Ginny had somehow forgotten to take off the shortening spell.

So.

That was how she had acquired a perilously short skirt. If only she had taken a good look at herself this morning, then she wouldn't have had most of the male and even some of the female population of her class staring at the usually-hidden flesh that was her thighs. They must've thought she was utterly insane, walking out of her room like this! Blind, or visually impaired, at least!

She felt her cheeks blaze with a fire that was embarrassment and horror all at the same time.

"Oh Merlin," she groaned, digging her face inside her hands, scolding and swearing at herself. "_Stupid_ Ginny."

Draco cocked an eyebrow at her curiously, before letting his eyes roam freely over the revealed skin of her legs. He wasn't surprised to see that he liked what he saw. In fact, he liked it more than anything else. Hermione Granger and her wicked pair of legs was his most favorite thing in the world right at the moment.

"She-Weasley?" he asked her, his eyes traveling back to her hidden face. "Is that who I have to thank for this?"

Hermione lowered her hands and scowled at him.

"Stuff it, Draco. Admit it. You only wanted to take time out of your oh-so-busy schedule to viciously snog me inside a deserted classroom because of my stupid, _stupidly_ short skirt."

Draco neared her and smirked, before catching one of her curls and tucking it behind her ear.

"Of course not, Granger," he said to her. "That's only one of the reasons."

Hermione scoffed and firmly pushed him away.

"Come on," he laughed. "I was only joking. You know I'd happily choose you over our ridiculous classes or Snape anytime. It's just that sometimes, I don't have a choice."

"You mean, you'd happily choose _snogging_ me over our ridiculous classes and Snape."

"Exactly. Wasn't that what I just said?"

Hermione sent him a glower, and he laughed again. He walked back towards her and slid his arms around her, pulling her to him.

"Another joke. And here I thought you were smart."

"Don't test me, Malfoy. I can just as easily bark at you as Snape does."

"Ah, but when you do it, I assure you it's far more entertaining than when Snape does. The man gives me nightmares." Draco then scrunched up his face, giving her a look that was a blend of curiosity and thought. "And, since when did you start calling me 'Malfoy' again?"

"Since now," she huffed, wanting to punch him in the face.

Draco looked at her. Her calling him by his family name now strangely disturbed him – especially when they were on "these" terms now. Yet, it did remind him of a time less complicated…

Disturbing, indeed.

It just sounded very peculiar; peculiar in a way he could do without. Normally, he wouldn't give a shit, but today just wasn't that day.

"You can't call me that outside our classes," he informed her.

Hermione quirked an eyebrow at him, inquisitive and interested in why not. But before she could ask him to elaborate, he had already taken to answering her question.

"Because," he said to her, "I've realized that maybe we need to give that whole first-name basis thing a try. Which is rubbish, of course, because I doubt it'll stick on. But it'll give us a laugh."

He had chosen to lie to her. Confessing the absolute truth would make him look like a fool. Because, truth was: her saying "Draco" sounded far better than he remembered anyone else saying it. He figured he could milk it for all it was worth before it become totally cold and icicle-like, just like his father.

Pansy the Harlot used to say it with a purr, for example: "_Drrrrrrraaco_." Like she was a cat. A mentally disabled, too-much-make-up-wearing, swearing, chasing, clawing, smirking cat. A very undesirable cat, in simpler terms.

Thank goodness, such was not the case with Hermione. There was no purring, although Draco did wonder what it would sound like if she did (far better than Pansy's cheap version, for sure). She gave it a different tone, a different hue, a different ring. He had never liked his peers to call him by his first name because his father was the only one to really call him that, and each time Lucius did bark at his son, he could feel his gritting rage boil inside of him.

He had associated the name "Draco" with his father, and negative, cold things long before. Though "Malfoy," his surname, was not such a warm name either, he preferred it to his first name. At least now when Hermione said it, it gave him that sense of warmth that his name had never acquired before. It was different. It made him feel different. It made him feel better. Sometimes, when she wasn't scolding him or yelling him or doing any verbal reprimanding of any sort.

She was looking at him as if she was deep in thought and trying to figure out whether he was demented or not.

"Really?" she asked him. "Then why don't you call me 'Hermione'?"

"Because Potter and Weasley call you that, and I don't want myself associated to them in an additional way."

Hermione gave him a look before sighing with a slightly sad look in her eyes.

After the still-revolving shock of her very short skirt, she didn't think she could be angry with him for that. She just needed to run back to her room, rip it off, then burn it. Simply repairing it back to its normal state seemed too nice for this cotton descendant of evil.

"Oh," she merely said.

Draco saw the look on her face and also let out a heavy sigh. _'Good one,'_ his mind snorted. _'Fed her to the wolves, did you?_' Draco quieted his bothersome conscience by telling it to sod off.

"Granger's not too bad of a name," he told her, pathetically attempting to cheer her up.

"I suppose so," she said, before trying to untangle herself from him.

"You're upset with me," he stated, as he wouldn't let her.

'_Oh, and they say you aren't worthy to be Head Boy,'_ she wanted to snap back at him. _'Thanks for the restatement of reality, prat._'

Instead, she pursed her lips together and looked him straight in the eye.

"No, I'm not."

"Granger, you're a lousy liar."

"I've got to meet Harry and Ron in the Great Hall, and I said I wouldn't be long. They might be getting suspicious," she told him, ignoring his remark, slipping her hand out of his and smoothing out her shirt and skirt. "I'll see you later. Unless you've got another date with Snape, of course."

"Is that why you're angry? Because of Snape? Don't be ridiculous. You're bloody kidding me."

"I've got to go," she told him.

"Wait," he said, as he caught her hand and tugged her back to him. "You've got to understand that I can't refuse those meetings with him. I just can't."

This was true. He was forced to by a much higher force that guaranteed much hurt if he didn't. Plus, it was his duty. Always his sodding duty.

"And why not?" she asked. "Why can't you just tell me why you've got to meet him as often as you have to now?"

"Because I _can't_, Granger," he said firmly, squeezing her hand. His eyes were dark but she could clearly make out the sincerity inside them. "I simply _can't_. You've just got to trust me."

Trust. It felt odd saying it. It left a numb taste in his mouth. Who was he to be lecturing her about trust when he, himself, knew naught about trust? He knew almost everything there was to know about betrayal, backstabbing, lying, double-dealing, and sabotage, but trust? Nothing.

Hermione sighed. "Fine," she said to him. "I understand. I trust you."

Draco shook his head. "No, you don't."

Hermione shrugged. "You did say I was a lousy liar."

"You're being difficult," he said, becoming annoyed.

"Look, Draco," she firmly said. "I ran after you, didn't I? I asked for another chance. I know that we have our differences, but you insisted on trying. And… and I know there are some things we'll never agree on. And there will be some things I will never understand. But I can accept that. I am accepting that. It just… takes a while, that's all. For some things, at least." She tried to give him a small smile as she lightly brushed his lips with her thumb. "Now, I've got to go. They're probably recruiting a search team by now."

She had managed to keep in her irritation and aggravation. She realized that it would certainly take time for him to be completely honest with her (ages, she supposed), and he did have to learn to think before he spoke and therefore avoid from saying such stupid, offending things to her, but even she had her flaws. True, her flaws were much less such an atrocity compared to his – but there was always room for compromise.

She could only be sincere in this stressful time. And refuse the urge to hex him. (Surprising how that still had to happen.)

But as she turned to leave, Draco simply said out one word, "Wait," as if in just one breath, as he suddenly pulled on her hand he was still holding and she came crashing back into him. He then kissed her, soundly and deeply, before he slowly pulled back. He gave her one of his special, rare smiles, and though it was small, Hermione saw the message he meant behind it.

"I'll see you later, then," he told her, his smile transforming into a very familiar smirk.

But a breathless word suddenly escaped from her lips from pure impulse, her heart beating loudly and violently inside her chest.

"Wait," she said, just as he had said before, grabbing his tie and pulling him forwards to kiss her, once again.

oooo

Hermione walked out of the classroom feeling quite bubbly and happy, smiling a very ridiculous smile. But as she looked down at her Weasley-altered skirt, the reason for the odd occurrences inside the deserted Ancient Runes room, a smirk slowly dawned on her face.

She remembered Ron's dress robes in fourth year, and she began to laugh.

"What is it with Weasleys and magically-altering their garments?" she amusedly asked herself aloud. But at least Ginny had been successful. Somewhat.

But while she could certainly chuckle about it, there was no denying the fact that Ginny had been right – she was certainly thanking her and her skirt-shortening spells about now. In fact, she rather understood why Ginny changed her skirts the way she did, and Hermione decided she wouldn't change her skirt back to its original length just yet. After all, with it, she had an advantage. Without it, she had… none.

And, clever girl that she was, she knew it would come in handy again sooner or later.

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**PLEASE REVIEW!**

**A/N:** How'd you all like the fluffy scene:) That was one of my most favorite scenes to write. That whole tie-pulling thing was just very cute to me.


	29. Fevers and Flames

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me nor anyone else but J.K. Rowling. Right? Right. Yeah, I thought so, too. Just wanted to make sure. Nothing wrong with being sure.

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A big, BIG, GIGANTUOUS thanks to whoever nominated me for Round Two of **Dangerous Liaisons**! If you would like to tell me your name, I would be happy to thank you personally or dedicate a chapter to you! XD And also a just as big thank you to the reviewers and readers who have been patiently waiting! And all my love to my patient beta, Jojo, as well. I love you all so very dearly.

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**Fevers and Flames**

Unfortunately for Hermione, after her secret meeting with Draco in the Ancient Runes classroom that day, even stranger things began to happen.

That same feverish and claustrophobic feeling she had had before now became constant and random, and it struck her at anytime and anywhere – whether she was in class, studying in the borders of her room, or with Draco. She had frantically tried to search for the root of the whole problem (or maybe even illness) but even though she had thoroughly hunted the library for everything they had on fevers or fever-like symptoms, she could not find a single thing that related to it even the slightest bit. And so, caught in such a terrible dead-end where even the library could not assist her, Hermione knew not what to do.

She did consider going over to the infirmary and consulting Madam Pomfrey, but instead settled on trying to reassure herself that it was not such a big, major thing and therefore was not something she should bother their school nurse with. After all, even if she were to head on over to the hospital wing, the fever would surely be long gone before she even made it halfway there.

They often disappeared just as quickly as they would appear, which was also a problem, considering that it never lasted long enough for her to quite figure out what the trigger for it was. Of course, on the other hand, there wouldn't be much use for it if it lasted more than it usually did, anyway. Her unstable moments often plagued, clouded, and clenched her mind in such a painful way that she couldn't even bear to think straight when it arrived. And that was saying a lot, considering she _was_ Hermione Granger.

But she did realize that if it got far worse than she could handle, she owed it to herself to go over to their Medi-Witch and find out just what was wrong with her and hopefully also grasp a cure. It was no lie that she was getting horribly worried about her condition and about what her chance fevers just might mean.

Strangely, and with absolute slyness, the transition of her being perfectly fine to being almost frighteningly unstable was quick, easy, and in no doubt so slick that when it came it struck her dead-on and furiously hard without even giving her one single hint of its timely construction inside her body.

The first symptom of her cruel fevers was the sudden and swift rise in temperature, and no sooner than about a minute later she would suddenly feel as if she was in the center of a burning building. She would start to sweat uncontrollably, and her heart would begin to pound so hard that it thudded against her ribcage, bestowing hurt on its own self in its violent, reckless pulse. Blood would rush through her veins so rapidly that she would start to feel it overtake her body and hammer continuously inside of her skull.

It was like a very bad hangover. Except worse.

It was then that the room would start its shrinking act. It didn't matter how vast the room was, or how small — it just started to feel and appear to be closing in around her until she felt as if she couldn't breathe. The noises, each varying from the atmosphere she had decided to surround herself with (such as rustles of parchment, loud lectures in a class, or ear-splitting laughter and conversations in the Great Hall) would start to pain her ears, extensively rising up in its volume until it screeched mercilessly in her eardrums. That was then she would grit her teeth to try to refrain herself from screaming in frustration and agony.

The odd fevers that attacked her lasted from a mere three minutes to an excruciating ten, but even those mere three minutes wouldn't seem so "mere" then. Every time it managed to plague her it worsened, which was indeed very bad news for Hermione.

As foolish as it may be, she stubbornly refused to go to the hospital wing for she knew that Madam Pomfrey would insist on keeping her inside those dreaded and bleak walls for observation for days — or, hell, even weeks. She knew she could not afford risking such an essential thing as her studies and classes, which she was pretty certain the uptight Medi-Witch would make her halt during her time in the infirmary. She just couldn't risk it.

No, not when they were just doing the vastly important things needed for their term scores and futures, and not when she was just so close to finishing her _Expugnabilis_ Potion in Snape's class. It was the beginning of the end of the year, and she knew for a fact that she could not afford to miss any single bit of it, at all.

And if a measly little thing like bothersome and strange tiny fevers were going to try and stop her from working her overly-determined arse off to achieve her lifelong goal, then all she could say was this: _bring_ _it_.

And oh, how Hermione Granger meant it. She truly, _truly_ did, with all the fire, determination, and fiber she could ever possibly contain within her being.

Thus, as her fevers worsened with each encounter, she could only sit in her seat, grit her teeth and bear it. Although, there had been some times when she had excused herself in the midst of her classes because it had gotten so bad.

Little did she know however, that no matter how much she tried to hide her strange illness or whatever the bloody hell it was, her boyfriend seemed to be much more wary and attentive to her than ever before.

In fact, he would've been absolutely oblivious and careless or even blind if he hadn't been the least bit concerned, because her fevers had decided to make another stunning, glamorous debut at a crucial moment — their nightly (not such an apt word, since Draco's nights were sometimes still consumed by his Mystery Business with Snape) get-together in the common room. Hermione could not believe her misfortune, however, as it struck her when she was with the one person she was most determined to hide it from.

They were studying. Not snogging – just studying. They had just been in the midst of breaking the record, too — three hours without snogging. And, needless to say, considering her past thoughts about her codependency and such, Hermione was feeling rather proud of herself.

But just as she was finishing her last sentence on their latest Herbology assignment… she felt it. Those scorching bolts of pain, striking her like white-hot acid lightning slicing through her skull and body. She sucked in a deep breath, freezing and tensing her body, her grip on her quill tightening with force.

She desperately reminded herself to try her hardest to hide her condition, for she didn't want anyone – most especially Draco – to worry about her for she knew that he'd blow it way out of proportion. But as she squinted her eyes from the aches and sparking flares of fire and flame that were starting to burst through her body, she found out the hard way that achieving the mental state alone of attempting to play pretend was going to be harder than she had thought.

She shut her eyes tightly, mentally begging for it to go away and most of all cursing its timing, but it continued to spread. It was a different, cutting sort of horrible and painful fire. The sort that constricts and fills lungs with a musty, toxic air. Far, far worse and very much unlike the class of fires Draco started inside her.

Despite her silent begs and pleads, her world began to spin and her heart was bashing pitilessly against her chest, her blood running sharply through her tender veins. Hot, tight air surrounded her, and her lungs were crumbling in from the fact that she was short of that sufficient amount of oxygen she needed to get her heart to keep beating, her brain to keep thinking, and all of her other organs in her body to keep functioning. However, she was still quite certain that her heart was doing just fine — it was still working and seemed very intent on trying to murder itself.

Suddenly, she felt something snap inside of her hand as she started to wheeze for air, clutching her neck, trying to breathe, feeling a cold, prickling fear arise from inside her.

There was an insane frenzy swarming hyperactively inside of her mind. One half of it clearly said that she was on the road to death, and the other half said that if Draco noticed her current state of semi-suffocation (which, she knew, he probably was going to in about a half-second or so) and made her go to Madam Pomfrey, she would fail the Potions assignment and inevitably _still_ be on the road to death. It was a lose-lose situation, unfortunately, but right now Hermione was quite a bit more worried about whether she was still going to be able to live to get herself to take in one last breath before she died from lack of oxygen.

Draco, suddenly noticing her state of tremendous distress and emergency, bolted from his seat and ran over to her, accidentally stubbing his toe on a foot of the table but ignoring the painful throbbing as he quickly made his way over to her.

When he got to her and tried to rapidly figure out just what was happening to her, he was absolutely still in shock and quite at a loss of what to actually do. He had never come across a choking individual before, at least, not without knowing the reason of the person's choking and wheezing, and coughing. But see, he had been watching her (before he had suddenly been engrossed in his essay). She hadn't been chewing anything like the sort of sweets from Honeydukes and so he was almost positively sure that there was no reason for her to be choking as badly as she was now. At least, not one that he could think of or sensibly see.

All in all, besides the unfamiliar, frightening and overwhelming feeling of the intense panic and worry that had spread through him in record time (he had never felt it act so swiftly or so strongly), he was confused.

But that thought was hastily swiped out of the way as obviously he was trying to help her to get to breathe again. The last thing he wanted was just to sit there and think over all of the new strange feelings she had brought upon him ever since that day in the corridor while his girlfriend was coughing and suffocating to death right in front of him.

Draco had never had a relationship as serious as this before, but he knew for a fact that that was a major no-no if he ever wanted to have her trust him (despite his conflicting feelings about trust) ever again.

"What is it? What's wrong, Granger?" he asked quickly and apprehensively, undeniably panicking in the most un-Malfoy way, trying to help her but her hunched position and the small detail that she was swiftly and determinedly swatting his hands away were making it all the more difficult.

She was still panting for air as he felt the cancerous feeling of worry and fear flood through him.

"What is it? What happened?"

After a few short moments, the constricting in her throat and lungs settled and the threat of things lowered. However, that didn't stop Draco from pestering her like a sugar-high, fidgety boy inside a dull library.

He kept insisting on his questions of what had happened to her, if she was hurt, or if she needed to go to the hospital wing, or if she needed a break, and though she knew his intentions were simply out of concern and sincerity, she didn't need him persisting like so when her attack wasn't quite done yet.

"Nothing. I'm fine," she snapped, still slightly breathless, upset that fate had decided to bring Draco into this whole mess — just what she had been afraid of. Now he would _never_ leave her alone.

He was holding her hand now, tightly, and she could remarkably sense that Draco was quite at a loss at what to do. This was partly her fault, actually, because she had made sure he couldn't help her by slapping his hands away, which irritated him (yes, she had heard that frustrated sigh and those swear words he had muttered) but it was only because it was very clear in her knowledge that there was nothing he _could_ do to help her. She had hoped that someway he could see that or somehow get the message, but apparently he was not as clever in a state of panic than she had thought.

It did endear her how much he seemed to be worried about her, though. After all, she was a girl. And girls did have those romantic fantasies more than they'd ever care to admit, even Hermione Granger.

Her breaths began to shallow as she squinted her eyes tightly. She attempted to prepare herself for what else was to come for she could feel that though her lungs had started to correctly function again, the temperature still continued to rise in her system. She could feel the restlessness inside, mentally bracing herself for it as she forcefully ground her teeth. She tensed, feeling a sensation of fear thread inside her.

Draco watched, anxious and fretting inside, reaching out to her and brushing out her brown tendrils to view her face, her strands moist with perspiration, observing the paleness of her face and the drops of sweat sliding down her skin. And, as he looked down at her hands, loosening his grip a bit before tightening it again, he discovered that she was trembling.

"You're ill," he observed aloud, way past attempting to hide his concern, his eyes flickering with alarm.

"No, I'm not," she managed to grit out. Her eyes were still closed. "I'll be fine, Draco. Just give me a minute."

"This has happened before," he stated, his brows knit in seriousness and thought as he tucked her curl behind her ear. "I know it has. What is it, Hermione? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, feeling a wave of relief pass over her as the heat and twirling of the world soon faded. There was also that slight twinge of awareness when she suddenly realized that he had called her "Hermione." She let out a sigh, softly slipping her hand out of his as she dug her head in her palms before raising her gaze to meet his eyes. "There's nothing wrong."

Draco's face seemed to be set in stone, entirely grave that it almost frightened her, as he leaned forward and brushed his fingers against her forehead. He felt the intense heat and dampness from the mere contact with his fingertips.

"There is," he told her. "You've got to go see Madam Pomfrey. Come on, I'll take you, right now," he said, grabbing her hand and getting to his feet.

"No," she quickly said as she snatched her hand away. "No, Draco, honestly, I'm fine. I swear. I just…. something happened, I just don't know what."

"Don't be stubborn," he told her, almost sharply. "Come on. There's obviously something wrong with you, and we need to get you to the hospital wing before it happens again. And, since you don't know what's wrong, that gives us even more reason to pay a visit to grumpy old Pomfrey, so get up, because you are going to get there whether you come willingly, or I have to drag you or carry you to the blasted place."

Hermione scowled at him, getting up just as he did.

"You're being ridiculous," she told him, annoyed. "I'm just fine. It won't happen again. I know it."

"No, you don't," he insisted, also irritated with her stubbornness. He really was quite bothered by her obstinacy at the moment. "You may be smart, Granger, but you can certainly be a fool sometimes."

"I don't want to go to the hospital wing," she sternly said. "I am _just_ fine."

"What are you afraid of?" he asked her, getting aggravated. "What reason could you possibly bloody have not to want to go and find out what is wrong with you?"

"I'm fine!" she suddenly exclaimed. "I'm _just_ fine! I just… something happened to me for one brief second, and it might've seemed serious, but it's _not_."

"You could have _died_!"

"That's preposterous!"

"Stop pissing around, Hermione! This is not a joking matter! Now, I'm warning you, I _will_ drag you or carry you there if I have to."

Hermione stared at him for a short moment, blinking, feeling a warm, pleasant pinch to her heart as she heard him call her by her first name again, albeit the fact that he said it with a hint of anger and annoyance. The fact that her name, not "Granger," but her true name had slipped from his lips activated a frenzy of butterflies inside of her stomach.

"You called me 'Hermione'," she told him, slightly stunned.

"Yeah, well, I suppose that's what happens when you're just standing there, acting like there's nothing bloody wrong, ignoring everything I spit at you, when you were just turning blue from lack of air a second ago—" he yelled at her before she cut him off.

"Must you really persist on this subject?" she asked him, crossing her arms.

"Must you really interrupt me all the sodding time?" he snapped. "Can't you just listen to me and do what I tell you for this one time?"

"I would, if there was something really wrong with me," she stubbornly told him.

Draco then glowered at her, a look that Hermione certainly hadn't seen in a long time.

It just then occurred to her what was happening, and as odd as it may sound, it slightly thrilled her. They were having their first fight! Of course, their first fight on _these_ terms, not counting all those times before. It almost made her want to smile, but the fact that Draco was giving her a look that made her nearly nostalgic of their vicious spats before quickly wiped that clean from the slate.

It also made a warming sensation grasp her heart when she realized just why he was so angry with her right now. He was so worried about her and it was just so un-Draco-like that it almost made her want to just laugh and kiss him. This mere fact gave her a clue of how she had really impacted him – and she wondered if she would end up somehow, along the road, changing him, as well. This was certainly a start, wasn't it?

"You've got a really thick head, Granger," he told her, still glaring at her. "I can't believe that even when we're on these terms, you _still_ refuse to listen to me."

"I'll go to Madam Pomfrey if it gets worse, I swear," she promised him. "But I just can't risk it right now."

He gave her a look, thinking, furrowing his blond brows. It was then that he threw his head back and groaned. It was a groan filled with exasperation and aggravation.

"Bloody _hell_," he told her, "this isn't because of what I think it is, is it?"

Hermione shrugged smugly, knowing that if she told him it would only infuriate him more.

"I don't know. I can't read minds."

"You can't possibly be refusing the infirmary because of your studies!"

"What if I am?"

Draco gaped at her.

"Good God, Hermione!" He then neared her again and grasped her wrist tightly, looking darkly into her eyes. "We're going. Right now. Whether you like it or not." He pulled her as he walked towards the door, forcefully dragging her as she tried to pry his hand off of her. He had her in a death grip, as she winced and sternly told him to let go of her in the most Professor McGonagall voice she could muster.

"No," he told her firmly, unaffected by her frighteningly good imitation of their uptight professor, heading towards the door. "If you're going to be stubborn, be my guest, but I'm not going to let you die because of it while I'm still here."

"I'm _not_ dying!" she yelled at him, while he simply ignored her.

Suddenly, Hermione got his hand to slip off of her wrist as she seized this opportunity to dash all the way across the room to beside her door. She quickly whispered her password, hearing the door unlock, as Draco whipped around, looking for her.

When he did spot her, he was – unsurprisingly – much angrier.

"Hermione…" he snarled.

"I told you that I'm _just_ fine," she said to him. "You can believe me or not, but it's the truth. And if you're going to attempt on dragging me to the hospital wing every time we're together, then maybe it's best if we steer clear of each other for the next few days."

But before he could speak out another word, one probably of objection, she had already opened her door and slipped inside of her room, safe and sound from her boyfriend's (in her opinion) over-protective hands. At least, for now.

Draco sighed through gritted teeth as he stared at the dark wooden face of her door. He seriously considered the thought of stomping over there, breaking it down, and then carrying her off her feet and quickly dashing off to the infirmary, but then that last-minute and spontaneous plan would certainly gain him some bruises. He knew that his girlfriend could certainly be a fighter when she wanted to be— a lethal one, at that, considering the fact that he had seen her in action once or twice in the past and it had not been very pretty.

So, as he scowled at her door, muttering curses under his breath, asking himself why he had gotten involved with the most stubborn of the bunch in the first place (though the answer was rather apparent, he just tried to ignore it in anger), he walked over to the table they had once occupied and sat down.

Shaking his head while still worried and concerned, he knew that this matter would not let him rest until he came up with something, much less let him get back to his essay. He then attempted to scheme for an ingenious plan to trick her into getting into the infirmary.

He wondered how he could possibly get away with it without her becoming angry with him and attempting to boycott snogging with him.

Draco sighed heavily, looking down at his unfinished essay.

oooo

The next morning, they still refused to look or speak to each other. They did not meet up with each other in the common room as they usually did to have their daily morning "meetings," and even though that clearly set the pair of them off to a rather rocky start of the day, they still persistently snubbed contact.

It was a contest, really, as everything usually was between the likes of a Gryffindor and a Slytherin. They both wanted to see who would crack first, and both were especially determined to keep themselves composed and appearing to be as unruffled as possible. Both of them were indeed strong-minded to be the one who cracked last, mentally and vocally haughtily telling themselves that it would be the other who would spill first.

Being that there were only two people playing this game of pride, it would either be Draco or Hermione. There was no third candidate even though there might as well be, since both of them were just so very stubborn and hardheaded.

But somewhere in the very depths of their hearts, they knew that this competition could not last very long. They were, in fact, very strongly smitten with each other, and if it wasn't the lack of passionate snogging that would get to them, it would certainly be the sole absence of the other's presence, in terms of one-on-one. Because even though their heads could very well be coated with a layer of steel, their hearts were still soft for the other and being away from each other in this ignorant act would surely crush them inside, unavoidably and eventually.

After all, it was a very well known fact that lovers' spats were always ended by a passionate, affectionate and feverish ending. At least, that's what she had assumed from all of those romantic or dramatic Muggle movies she had watched. She had always presumed that that was also the way in the wizarding world.

Because it was no secret that between them, there was more than enough passion to go around.

However, as they both went on with their days, only sparing a few looks at the other during their classes (and they were not the usual sort, mind you), the hours and minutes seemed to drag on dreadfully slow. The professors' once energetic, captivating lectures were now like series of dull, droning noises in monotone. And as they both sat in their seats, trying their best to concentrate, they could only linger on the fact that they had lost that one thing they had always been looking forward to at the end of the day, that one thing that didn't make their days seem so long — their meetings after their classes.

But there was no denying that Draco was still worried about her and still rather bothered at why she profusely rejected going to the hospital wing. Far be it in his nature, he really was concerned for her health.

Hermione, all the while, was rethinking their relationship. Well, not in the exact terms of rethinking, but she was analyzing it like it was an assignment for Arithmancy or proofreading one of her essays. There was an odd feeling in her stomach that told her this was far bigger than she had ever let on. Sure, she knew that her feelings for him were growing… but what was this sudden nagging in the depths of her conscience about bigger, stronger, deeper things? She didn't know, but she was also almost frightened to find out.

One thing that Hermione was looking forward to, be it in her damned nature, was Potions. As odd and strange as that was. But that small tickle of anticipation was only because that this was the last day for their _Expugnabilis_ potions, and she was just one step from finishing it and turning it in for evaluation.

But there was also that knot of dread in her stomach…. Snape had straight-out said himself that some of them were going to act as guinea pigs to their peers' potions, and that worried her. Because as far as their professor's reputation went for despising the Gryffindor House and everyone associated with it, she knew that he was evilly going to choose either her, Harry, or Ron, and predictably even Neville for this little project. That scared her even more.

There was an uneasy squirming in her abdomen that told her that today wasn't going to go as smoothly as the rest.

But Hermione only just sighed, absentmindedly shifting her gaze from Professor Vector and to the bright head across the room from her – the same bright head that distracted her far too much even when it wasn't in the same room, or even in the same view. She watched him for a few seconds, but as he turned his eyes to her – as if somehow sensing her attention pointed directly at him – she quickly looked away and clumsily preoccupied herself by fumbling with her quill and parchment.

She tried to avoid thinking of him though the pitiful hole in her stomach was becoming bigger and bigger, eating away her usual concentration for other things, which made doing that much, much more difficult than she expected. However, she just busied herself with thoughts ("attempted to" was more fitting) with her due assignments and the Hogwarts Harmonium.

For the Hogwarts Harmonium, she was glad to hear, was still a hit amongst her peers.

The Hogwarts Harmonium was carrying on much smoothly now, and it relieved her more than anything to see that. Their staff members were no longer as disorganized and frantic to get everything done and not a single hexed letter had come for her after her past incident. Their issues had been getting better and better and she had noticed that it had even deepened some of their peers' knowledge and views about some topics. It really did make Hermione grin a silly grin when she saw this.

She remembered her unfortunate dependence on those Insomniac Potions, her overworked days and nights, and she was happy that even though she had been nothing short of a psycho those days, her hard work had paid off. It gave her self-assurance and further hope, knowing that if she worked as hard as she possibly could, something good would come from it even if things were looking quite dim from her stance.

Hermione's mind lingered on the thought of her mishap with the Insomniac Potions and she felt a pinch in her heart as she tensed in her seat. There was a blinking, bright light inside her brain, shrilling like a siren, screeching at her, as if she had just uncovered something vastly important. Like a clue. But as she tried to think deeper into it, she still couldn't figure out just what the clue was for.

"… Remember that your assessments are next week, so go on and do yourself a favor and flip through those dusty books," their professor said. "I want to see everyone pass… and you know what happens to those who don't. You are dismissed."

Bodies took to their feet, chatting loudly, chairs groaning as it slid in and out of their places. The sound of parchments crinkling in book bags filled Hermione's ears as she slowly stood up as well, grabbing her quills and notes from her desk and neatly situating them inside of her book bag. Slipping it across her shoulder, she shook herself out of her thoughts and joined in on Ron and Harry's cheerful conversation.

"Are you all right, Hermione?" Harry asked her as they piled out of the class, heading down towards the Slytherin quarter of the castle for Potions.

Hermione felt the knots in her stomach noticeably pull tighter.

"I'm fine. I suppose I'm just a bit nervous, you know, for Potions."

Harry nodded.

"I know what you mean," said Ron from Harry's side. "But don't worry, you're going to do fantastic, just like you always do – which is why I need a bit of help. Is it the Ashwood twig that needs to be sliced? Or is it that thin branch with the little red molds on it, you know, the one that smells something like the cheese my mum makes?"

Harry chuckled faintly, and Hermione shook her head and smiled in amusement.

"The Ashwood twig," she replied. "Not the Belmint root, or, in your words, 'the one that smells like the cheese your mum makes.' "

Ron grinned proudly.

"I knew it. Now… which one is the Ashwood twig?"

oooo

Severus Snape looked particularly fearsome today. From the look on his face and the charred sides of some of the tables, the other classes had had some difficulties with their potions. There was even an engraved hole beside the corner that someone's potion had caused, which caused Hermione to involuntarily shudder.

Their _Expugnabilis_ Potions, according to their textbooks, were supposed to freeze the body internally by an immediate, strong draft and then cause the person to dwell in a dreamlike state or trance where they could be interrogated and the potion would cause them to answer — but in some cases, not exactly the truth. It is very easy to lie while still in the affects of the potion, reason why it was never used for important situations after the public had somehow found out the secret, or the loophole. The many guilty escaped prisoners that had been mistakenly proved as innocent by it, however, she had read, were too much to compensate for.

Hermione was curious at how someone could brew a potion so wrongly that a former-potion used for prisoners in the olden days could somehow melt a hole into the ground. It really did baffle her at how some of her peers could carelessly and incorrectly concoct a potion that they had been studying for weeks.

Snape specifically told them in his usual oily tone that they had but twenty-five minutes to finish up until they were ordered to stop and prepare for the peer tests, finished or not. Sensing the urgency as was originally meant; everyone in the room immediately lapsed into silent concentration, trying to promptly but cautiously complete their potions.

Only about ten minutes later, Hermione was secretly smirking as she stirred the thick liquid inside of her cauldron, pleased at the deep blue it had acquired. She knew that she had indeed done her potion correctly without flaws — a single miscalculation would have turned it a different color, or so it had said on page four hundred eighty-one in her Potions book.

No doubt, she was proud of herself. After all, why shouldn't she be? She had done an excellent job on her _Expugnibilis_ Potion, the most difficult potion of the potions they were to make during this course, and had also dodged Ron's elbows from knocking her over more than a few times. Such was quite an astonishing feat. Maybe today wasn't going to be as bad as she had thought.

Fifteen minutes later, the same terrorizing voice filled the air.

Everyone halted their motions and Hermione felt everyone tense around her as if holding each of their breaths in fright. She looked around worriedly and anxiously. She could tell not all of them had finished in time and felt a twinge of sympathy towards them.

"Your twenty-five minutes are up," he informed the class, his upper lip shriveling in an impish smirk. "Time for you mongrels to have a bit of a taste of your accomplishments… or lack thereof." He eyed each of them, and as his dark eyes locked on Hermione's, she felt her spine go rigid with fear.

'_Oh, Merlin,_' she nervously thought as his gaze moved on to her other shaking peers_. 'I knew it. The bastard chose me was one of his guinea pigs._'

She had seen the wickedness in his eyes and she knew she was spot-on with her assumption. She only wondered whose potion it was that she was to drink.

Either way, she knew she was doomed.

Maybe Draco would get his wish. Maybe she would end up going to the hospital wing, after all.

Just the thought of it made her queasy.

'_Oh dear,_' she thought, swallowing hard as her hands started to break out in cold sweat. _'I hope my breakfast won't end up on the floor even before I get to drink the potion._' It was no lie that she thought she was literally going to be sick.

And… Merlin, was it just her or was the room suddenly getting so warm? And the pounding in her head… such agony!

"Miss Granger," said a sharp, cutting but sickeningly silky voice.

Hermione froze, involuntarily holding in her breath though she had already been expecting it sometime sooner or later. She only wished that it could've been later, when the wriggling in her stomach had desisted.

"You are to be testing Mister Malfoy's potion today."

Hermione would have thrown her head back and let out a massive sigh of relief if her heart wasn't hammering so furiously against her ribs.

'_Thank heavens,_' she silently praised. '_His potion must be flawless!_'

And, oh, if it wasn't, he was _so_ going to get it later on. The consequences were too dire to even speak of – nay, think of. Yes, they were still quite cross with each other because of the other night, but she was rather positive ("hopeful" was actually a better term) that he wasn't so cruel and angry with her that he had purposely done something to his potion to _make_ her go to the hospital wing – though that _was_ a very Slytherin thing to do.

But she prayed that Draco respected her enough as to refuse himself from intentionally hospitalizing her. After all, he couldn't have known she was to drink his potion, could he?

A sallow hand appeared on her desk, holding a beaker of thick azure liquid. There was a slight cloud of mist that danced above the lips of the glass.

"Well, go on, Miss Granger," he drawled in a bored voice. "What are you waiting for? Christmas?"

In slightly shaky movements, Hermione took hold of the container and slowly raised it to her lips. She met Draco's eyes as she did this (one of the first times today, considering their sore situation), his silver eyes watching her intently with slightly knit brows.

He seemed worried. Why was he worried?

Hermione tried not to gag as she swallowed the solution down, making a face as it burned her throat with a stinging, bile vengeance. It was salty and rough in her mouth, corrosive and tart, and she could feel her taste buds vocally condemning Snape to eternal damnation in hell.

When she was done, her face was twisted into disgusted expression and her throat was scorching as well as her skin on her body. She set down the beaker, but she could not let go for her grasp was as tight as a steel death grip. Suddenly, as a lethargic daze started to slowly fill her mind, she let out a gasp as she felt a rocket of pain bolt through her chest.

The class was watching her with wide eyes, looking around nervously, not knowing exactly what they were supposed to be seeing.

Draco was watching her with a fearful look on his even paler face. If one had thought he had been absolutely colorless before, there was no comparison to the white of his face now. He was as pale as a sheet. Maybe even paler.

Hermione, meanwhile, didn't have a clue as to what was happening to her. There were flares of pain and heat exploding through her body, and she tried so hard to remember what she had read about the affects of the potion and what it was supposed to do to the drinker, but she couldn't. She was gritting her teeth so viciously, holding the beaker in such a vice grip that she wouldn't be surprised if she awoke to find shards of glass embedded into her hand.

Some had even taken to their feet to watch the young girl, with Harry, Ron, and Draco looking enraged at Professor Snape, who was watching her with a raised brow.

Suddenly, with a barrage of gasps erupting from inside the dungeon, she heavily collapsed to the ground without a word, the shattering sound of the beaker filling their ears.

Draco, Harry, and Ron immediately took to their feet, looking at her crumpled form with bulged eyes.

Draco looked over at Snape with narrowed eyes and flaring nostrils as the rest of the class hurried over to his fainted girlfriend.

He was practically digging his feet into the ground to prevent himself from running over to her, shoving everyone out of the way, taking her into his arms and bolting down to the hospital wing. But he couldn't. Or else everyone would know – or, worse, _he_ would know. And then he would snitch about the emotional attachment he had gotten to Hermione Granger, Infamous Muggle-born, and worse problems would arise. After all, Severus Snape's job was to be _the_ snitch that crossed the lines of good and evil back and forth. He, _clearly_, was a professional snitch.

He was _livid_. Confused, yes, but livid beyond anything else for he was absolutely certain that he had done his potion _perfectly_. The bint must have added something into it when he had handed to her! Good heavens, was he literally trying to kill _everyone_?

Her two best friends were trying to get her up from the floor while the rest of their class gathered around her with worried and frantic mumbles. He wanted badly to join along in trying to make sure she was okay and get her to the infirmary as quickly as they could, but he knew that if he pursued the strong impulse and urge, he would be giving everything away – to everyone. Especially to his Head of House.

In all of his life, Draco had never wanted to purposely murder a teacher with his bare hands and his bare hands alone. That way, he saw, was the messy, pathetic Muggle way. But, at the moment, nothing else could seem more appealing.

On his face was a look so fierce that it could've scared away Death himself.

Snape turned his head to the young, furious Malfoy.

Draco wanted to literally rip the smirk off of his face and throw it all the way across the room – over, and over, and over, and over again.

"Well, Mister Malfoy," he told him, so haughtily and silkily that the only reason he hadn't already lunged at him and started to rip out his hair was the fact that he was holding his table in a steel grip. Draco scornfully wondered just who his professor thought he was fooling.

He was absolutely going to _kill_ him at their next meeting. Maybe he could send a hex when he turned his back and tell him that he had forgotten that their lesson was over. But, then again, if he did, he wouldn't be able to see his face. Half of the fun would then be disintegrated into nothing.

"Congratulations. You passed with flying colors."

* * *

Intriguing, isn't it? ;) And, well, review, and I shall love you even more! Next chapter coming soon. Stay tuned! Lucius (or is it?) jumps in for some of the fun. Cheers, lovelies! 


	30. Beware the Tempers

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: Own Harry Potter? Not this girl. I wish.

* * *

Thank you to my excellent beta Jojo, Sarah, and to all of you readers and reviewers! Basketcase couldn't ever be what it is now without all of you. :)

Oh… and, no. Hermione is not pregnant. I'm hoping this chapter will answer most of your questions about the ending of chapter 32. :) Happy reading.

* * *

**Beware the Tempers**

Draco Malfoy was a monster that day.

To say in the least words possible: their Quidditch match with Ravenclaw was historical. Never before had Hogwarts seen such an infuriated and fuming Captain in all its time.

Draco had barked orders at everyone, threatened to send hexes their way if they even looked at him, and had even been so close to actually hitting two of his teammates and the Ravenclaw Captain across the face with his broom… _twice_.

Fortunately, even though his teammates had made sure to stay at least thirty yards away from him, they won their match with 215 to 165 points. Slytherin House was praised, but Draco did not stand long at the Pitch to take in the glory when all his mind was preoccupied with was his unconscious girlfriend in the infirmary with her blasted Gryffindor friends fussing over her.

Three times he had forgotten what had happened in Potions that day. Three times he had looked over to the stands expecting to see her beaming face looking up at him.

He was angry with his professor for being such a cruel bastard, and he was angry with unbearable Scarhead and Carrot Top for being the ones playing the part of the boyfriend, _his_ part. _He_ should be in the infirmary right now, sitting with her! _Not_ her half-witted behemoths of a bodyguard!

Oh, and Good God, when did he become so… possessive? So _jealous_?

This was not such a surprise, since he had always been the controlling type, but over a _girl_? He was getting worked up, cursing and condemning everyone and their families, over a mere _girl_?

'_But she isn't just any girl,'_ he bitterly told himself as he turned his back on the cheering crowd. '_She's my _girlfriend_.' _

It was certainly a new word for him to get used to.

The boisterous applause and noise faded as he entered the corridor, passing through the empty Slytherin locker room.

He had made up his mind. He couldn't bear just to stand here, playing ridiculous, pathetic Quidditch and soaking up all the credit when she – the only person he'd ever actually cared for the slightest bit – was hospitalized by the likes of his supposed professor and trainer. It was, to him, disturbing and wrong. Not to mention the thought of her alone in the hospital wing with her Gryffindor friends (the despicable lot trying to make her laugh and feel better) made him utterly sick with envy. It made the dry, squirming knots in his stomach tangle against themselves in a painful, strangling grip.

It was enough that he wasn't even allowed to visit her in the infirmary — but to just stand back and watch as her two gorillas flocked and tended to her? No, he would _not_ stand for that. At the moment, he did not even really care about the consequences. So what if it caused suspicion to erupt like an epidemic amongst his peers? He was the Master of Bullshit, and he knew he could ensnare all of his classmates with a few single words – and if necessary, threats.

Now, if he could only figure out what in the hell he was doing storming to his Head of House's office like he was (he wasn't present at all during the Quidditch game, which was surprising and a bit disrespectful, considering the fact that his own House had been playing) with such a vindictive look on his face. He had a feeling his growing bubble of anger would burst just at the sight of him and he would start to yell, shout, and scream like it was the bloody end of the world, but at the moment he was all too intent on teaching Severus Snape a lesson or two.

So _this_ was why the Gryffindors loathed him so much.

He wasn't thinking, really. If he could possibly think straight and consider of all the Pros and Cons of his actions, he could probably think about two million Cons to it. So, all in all: it wasn't at all reasonable or sensible, but he was angry. And when Draco Malfoy was angry beyond words or attempts of comfort, he took things to extreme measures. The rest would be analyzed later on.

He stomped up Slytherin Tower, the corridors almost empty except for a few lurking students here or there. Usually he would be a bit suspicious about the meandering fools looking as if they had just found the way to rule the world, but he was rather preoccupied with being livid and glaring at the sight ahead of him as if his eyes could burn holes in the air.

His hunter green Quidditch robes chased behind him, his silver eyes so thinly narrowed that they looked just like slits of ice. He had left his broom back in the locker room, but his hands were clenched into fists so tight that if he had been holding his latest-edition, Top Quality and insanely expensive Storm Chaser 5000 broom, it would have snapped in half like a twig.

This, lads and lasses, was the temper of Draco Malfoy.

He didn't even know why Snape seemed so keen (or so he had proved to him today) on injuring or hurting Hermione. Snape had never liked Gryffindors (his little grudge against them went way back – maybe even back to the ancient times, he guessed) but really, to use one of his own House's students' potion to prove it so? Low. How incredibly, _despicably_ low. And why on _earth_ would he even choose _his_ potion? Did he think that Draco would be pleased because he was still keeping up with the damned image of Draco Malfoy, Mudblood Hater? Did he? And just how in Merlin's name could Hermione have wronged him so tremendously (he doubted she did, but then again she _was_ a sly one) that Severus Snape wanted to kill her? In front of _everyone_?

And then frame his _own_ student?

He was confused. And confusion that sent a great, painful, jaw-grinding migraine his way did not mix well with his annoyance and fury. No, not at all.

When the sight of their famed Potions dungeon came into view, his feet pounded against the marble floors with a rhythmic vengeance.

He walked inside the classroom with a bitter aura surrounding him, a glower appearing to be permanently engraved on his face.

One Professor Snape, however, did not even bother to look up.

"Mister Malfoy," he shortly acknowledged him as Draco observed him marking down yet another student's scores.

The difference between the student's original grade and his grade now was utterly cruel. If he hadn't been so damn angry, he would've actually laughed at the fort of inhumanity and brutality the greasy man hid himself behind.

Way behind.

"Any news for me? Is the Quidditch game already over? That was certainly quick. I expect four of Ravenclaw's team was sent to the infirmary? Five?"

"You mean the Quidditch game that _you_, our Head of House, didn't even _attend_?" he snapped, unable to control himself.

Snape froze, his eyes still on the parchment and his hand stiff with his quill. He looked up at Draco, his eyes flickering dimly, dark with suspicion. And Draco even saw a bit of amusement in those gloomy eyes of his — this only infuriated him more.

"Do you have a problem you would like to discuss with me, Mister Malfoy?" he drawled in his usual manner. "It's not everyday one of my own House storms in here and spits with such a charge."

"Let's stop the act here, Snape – What did you do to my potion?" Draco almost shouted, not at all considering his sudden outburst with a levelheaded consciousness that was needed. "My potion was perfect! _Perfect_! I did everything as instructed in the book _precisely_ and _accurately_ – there is _no_ sodding way in hell that _my_ potion could have sent Granger off to the hospital wing! You added something to it! I know you did! That is _against_ the Hogwarts Teaching Guidelines, and that could get you bloody fired, you bloody—"

"Mister Malfoy," he said.

"—son of a—"

"_Mister Malfoy!"_ he firmly repeated, slightly raising his voice.

Draco silenced, but was breathing raggedly and his stormy eyes were ablaze. He had to tightly clench his fists to prevent himself from lunging at the man sitting before him and strangling him until he had entirely compressed his larynx into the size of a pin.

"Are your accusations, by any chance, educated?"

"No, but—"

"Do you have proof that I, hypothetically, added an unnecessary ingredient to send Miss Granger off to the infirmary?"

"_Proof_?" he asked incredulously. "Do we even _need_ proof? Look, I thank you for what you're doing for me and my mother, but you don't need to go to the extent of poisoning someone for _our_ sake!"

Snape gave him a look, and Draco tersely sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He told himself repeatedly that he needed to contain himself before he gave anything else out. He was already a dead man just because of his upsurge of curses and pointed fingers.

_Damn_ the works of his temper.

"No," he answered, but then added – with great hesitation – "Sir."

"Then I suggest you make the effort to actually know all the facts of a situation before you storm in here like some madman and accuse me in such an uncouth way," he sternly told his student with annoyance spewing from his mouth.

Draco was still glaring at him as if he had been the one who had cursed him with such an unlucky fate.

"I-I… apologize, sir," he said through gritted teeth. Did he mean it? _Hell_ no. But it would – hopefully – ease things up a bit. He couldn't afford to be on such sore terms with his Head of House. Especially with what Snape was doing for his family. Or what he might tell his mother. "I wasn't thinking. I was just upset… with the game."

"Indeed," Snape agreed. "But I take it you won? Or did you bestow another blow of disgrace to the Slytherin House?"

Draco knew what he meant by his snide remark. He was talking about the matches they had lost against the Gryffindors. Goodness, did this man not want to give it a rest? He seemed very keen on rubbing every fault (his or not) in his face.

Severus Snape was a sick, _sick_ man.

"We did," Draco tried to say without spitting it in his face. "215 to 165."

"Well done."

But he felt his blood run cold as a wicked smirk stretched the lips of his professor. He had a strong feeling that this was not going to be about the matters of Quidditch any longer.

Draco knew this was going to be very, _very_ bad.

"Just curious, Mister Malfoy," he said impishly. "Why are you suddenly so concerned about your potion? I remember correctly that I had already told you that you had passed. With flying colors, in fact. I don't understand why you should be so… so infuriated. Surely you must be pleased with your grade."

"Potter and Weasley," he replied coolly. Yes, he was Draco Malfoy. The Ultimate Master of Bullshit. He would've laughed at Snape if he actually believed this rubbish. As _if_ he would ever be scared of Potter and Weasley! No one could be so dense! But yet, he was wishing he was, right about now. "They're very intent on deciding who'll have my head first."

Snape snorted.

"You needn't worry about those two buffoons," he told him. "You didn't before, after all. I highly doubt they can do _anything_ to you."

"But Granger…"

"Yes, what about her?" he asked with a sly glimmer in his eye that Draco wanted to literally rip out.

Draco stayed silent, trying to decide how he should word his lie.

"Are you worried she's going to hex you?"

"Pathetic as it is," he regarded coldly, "Yes."

'_Oh Merlin,'_ said a snickering voice in the dark depths of his mind. '_What a horrible lie. He's going to have your arse for this one. That's going to _slay_ him.'_

Surprisingly, it did not. He laughed, yes… but it wasn't as if he had collapsed to the floor in a fit of hysterical giggles. After all, the day Severus Snape giggled like a schoolgirl would be the day Draco Malfoy himself declared undying love to Harry Potter.

The thought alone made him want to shudder.

His lie _was_ ridiculous. Draco didn't even know why he had said it aloud. Even if he was scared of her, he wouldn't ever be foolish enough to say it out loud, much less in front of his own Head of House. It was _suicide_.

"There's no need for your fretting, Mister Malfoy. Miss Granger will not hex you — after all, you are Slytherin's top student and Head Boy. No self-respecting man would even let her draw her wand within twenty-yards distance. You will be fine. But… I'm certain it is not just yourself you are thinking about. I have a feeling the reason for your visit here has little to do with your grade, or with Potter and Weasley."

And then there was that _damn_ twinkle in his eye. Again.

Draco froze, clenching his jaw. He tried to look at the man sitting without a terrified or murderous look in his eyes.

Oh, good heavens. No. This could _not_ be happening. How could he know? How could he bloody _know_? But… but maybe he didn't… maybe he was just toying with his mind. _Still_. What a _vile_ bastard.

'_Stupid Draco!'_ his mind screeched. _'You _idiot_! Why couldn't you have just taken those anger management classes your mother told you to go to instead of skipping them and practicing dark magic on those birds and squirrels in the courtyard? AGH! You're digging your grave now, I hope you know. You're _doomed_. DOOMED!'_

"I don't understand," he said, acting as if he didn't know what he was talking about. The only way he could pull this off was if he acted like he didn't know anything. He had to refuse everything his wicked Potions master threw at him. And he also had to refuse the strong urge to kill him in his own classroom.

"Mister Malfoy, have I, under any circumstance, caused you to come to some suspicion, or rather, conclusion, that I am blind?"

Draco, pretending to be taken aback, gave him an odd look. He was actually really quite annoyed and wanted to punch him square in the face.

Yes, right there. On his hooked nose. Flatten it a bit to lessen the frightening similarities he had to a crow. Honestly. The man also surely wore too much black. If it were his weight he was worried about (he had heard that black clothes slim the figure from Pansy and her friends… but, then again, they weren't necessarily the brightest bunch), then that would be complete nonsense, because despite the similarities he had to a crow, he also looked like a scarecrow. Minus the straw stuffing. And with more hair.

"No, sir," he said, baffled.

Severus Snape, the Scarecrow. Scarecrow Snape. It seemed appropriate. Draco only wondered if his schoolmates, back in the day, had called him that. If he looked anything like he did now, then he wouldn't be so surprised if they had.

"Are you aware of your actions, Malfoy?"

"Yes," he said, still feigning confusion. "I am."

He felt his blood boiling inside his veins.

"I'm sorry, Professor, but I don't quite understand what you're exactly hinting at."

Snape raised a brow at him, but the expression on his pale face still remained intact. "Oh, you don't?"

Draco shook his head, his brows furrowed in puzzlement and annoyance.

"No matter," he said. "Just know, Malfoy, that there are wandering eyes. You must be cautious."

"Sir—"

"There's no need to pretend. I know about you two," Snape suddenly snapped.

Draco's eyes widened.

"Your act isn't fooling anyone. Not me, at least. I am merely trying to tell you to make sure that you are not spreading suspicions around in your peers by your actions or disappearances. You know what I mean," he said unperturbedly, but sternly. "Your fellow Slytherins are supportive in your decisions, but make the wrong one, and they shall turn on you and offer you as a sacrifice."

Draco, beneath his cool, calm and strong exterior, shuddered — with rage.

"I am aware," Draco answered brusquely, in a colder tone.

Snape nodded. "Very well, then. Now that you are aware, you may leave."

Draco turned to leave, but just as he was about to step out of the class, Snape called out to him, making him stop instantly, mid-step.

"And, I would be careful," he drawled. "That Weasley may be as daft as a teacup, but Potter isn't. Keep your loving stares to a minimum."

Draco sneered, tensing his shoulders to prevent himself from doing anything completely impulsive and foolish, before walking out.

Yes, he was enraged.

How in the world did _Snape_ know about his situation with Hermione? _How_? They'd both been very secretive, after all. He just didn't understand. What did his professor have? Bloody mind-reading powers? Or maybe _he_ was the real Trelawney behind it all. Because, bloody hell, it astounded him that the man could see things like that but not see the use in shampoo and grooming products.

And so now he was making his way down to the hospital wing. If he was lucky, the Gryffindors (two in particular) would have split by now and left her alone to rest or some important rubbish like that that Madam Pomfrey always fusses over. He needed to talk to her, to straighten it out that he had done nothing to make her collapse in a dead faint the way she had when she drank his potion. He only hoped that she had enough faith or trust in him that she would believe him.

But with his luck, Potter and Weasley had probably already brainwashed her into thinking _he_ was the one to blame for all this mess by now. Those damn idiots. He could swear their only purpose in the world was to make everything worse for him than it already was.

During the long trip to the infirmary, he had viciously snapped at a variety of portraits that bid their greeting and walked away from the congratulations his housemates sent him during his way down the stairs. Clearly, he was just not in the mood.

He came to sardonically wonder how he could be so angry about the matter presented before him now. Snape purposely trying to hurt Hermione Granger – _his_ girl – wasn't supposed to send him in a mad fit. It wasn't supposed to make his head almost feel like it was going to explode if he didn't do something to defend her. No doubt, he was _supposed_ to be angry since they were in a relationship now (clandestine, yes, but nevertheless a relationship) and he cared for her… but could it be possible that he cared too much? That maybe he was getting too attached to her — something he had feared from the start?

This was definitely something to think about.

Also, Snape hadn't really cleared anything up for him, the insufferable bint, and so he had to rethink this all over again. Really, what good were professors when all they did was turn the tables on you and succeed in speaking in stupid riddles, pretending to be offended, and therefore doing everything they could to avoid the question brought up in the first place? It was _pathetic_. And the maddening thing was, he had even twisted the blame-game into something worse: his emotional attachment to Hermione Granger.

It was rubbish, really, the amount of ridiculous and crude rumors parading amongst the halls and his peers. He had already heard more than enough just by passing through the corridors. If anyone knew any better, they would know that she was the last person he had ever wanted to hurt, much less send to the infirmary in an unconscious and dangerous, unstable state.

But they had no way of knowing such a thing. Though he knew that even if they did, they still wouldn't have figured it out. He wasn't surprised. They were all blubbering, brainless geezers that way. It just amazed him how the school would allow such stupid halfwits into this school. Perhaps money _was_ everything these days.

When the hospital wing's vast doors came into view, he wondered if she was still sore at him for last evening. He guessed that she probably thought that he had intentionally poisoned her potion in an attempt to get her to the hospital wing, assuming she would then get checked, as was the procedure. In fact, he would take his whole vault at Gringotts and bet it on that simple thought. For after a while, he came to know the mechanisms of the complex mind of Hermione Granger like it was his own. Scary, yes, but it did come in handy at times.

Unfortunately, just as he was feeling a bit better as he neared the doors because he heard no raucous bursting from the bleak-walled room (a good sign that the Gryffindors were gone and he would be able to be alone with her), his luck yet played another trick on him, once again.

Alas, just as he was about a good five steps away from the door, Draco feeling especially antsy and determined about the situation, the door opened.

Draco froze. He wanted to literally curse and shake his balled fists at whoever it was up there that was clearly just not liking him today.

With knowledge of his rotten luck from the start of this morning, he should have known that the two people he never wanted to see (even if they were the last two people on earth) would make an appearance. It should have been predictable, actually. He only disdainfully asked himself why he hadn't it seen coming.

It was just like a reunion. Except he was pretty sure there was a bloodbath to come later on instead of some good old-fashioned reminiscing and fancy feast.

"Malfoy," they hissed the moment they saw him. They looked ready to kill. Draco knew that they probably were.

There, in front of him, was Wanky Weasley and Pathetic Potter. Draco would have actually laughed at the sight of Weasley's face turning beet red in record time if he hadn't been so annoyed and angry himself. He had no time for _this_. He had someone to get to, and he had to get to her before she was fully plunged into the sea of lies Potter and Weasley had probably shoved in her face. This really was quite unfair.

"Potter, Weasley," he curtly said. "_Move_."

Touché.

"I _don't_ think so, Malfoy," spat Ron with a searing edge to his words. He looked so red that he could have sworn he would have started to foam in the mouth, just like a crab. The simile seemed quite fitting. "There is no way _you_ are going in here."

"And why is that? Is that some law? Because I heard prejudice was outlawed years ago, Weasley. Better check those secondhand textbooks."

Unsurprisingly, he then tried to lunge at him, his blue eyes dark and glimmering like a stained blade. But Potter, as usual, held him back.

But as Draco's eyes flickered to the less temperamental one, he saw that he was just as enraged as his friend. It seemed that he just had more self-control. However, Draco had a feeling that that was going to change. Very, very soon.

"You _arsehole_!" Ron fumed. "The utter _nerve_ of you to come here! After you _purposely_ poison Hermione in class, you even have _more_ cruelty to spare! What is it, Malfoy? What's your plan? You make a trip down here and plan to slip something in her tonic, is that it?"

Draco's expression instantly transformed into a fierce glower.

Oh, boy. Was _he_ going to get it now.

It was a well-known fact that no one was going to start a fight with Draco Malfoy without getting one.

"You shut your mouth, Weasley," he snarled. "I didn't _poison_ her, halfwit."

"Oh! _Really_? Because there are about thirty other people who will most certainly disagree with you on that one!"

"Malfoy," said a grim voice coming from the Infamous Saint Harry Potter. Draco could hear the fury he tried to hide behind the stiffness of his tone. "_Just leave_. Leave _Hermione_ alone, leave _us_ alone. You've already hurt her — mission accomplished. Now just go back up to your Victory Feast over at Slytherin Tower and soak in all the glory. I promise you it won't last long."

Draco's head snapped in his direction, his eyes glinting with fire.

"I suggest you go back to your dormitories and look in the mirror, Potter," he lowly snarled. "Study your face with precision. Because, say another word, I _swear_ I won't hesitate to rip it off, along with that wretched scar of yours."

Harry's emerald eyes narrowed with spite, while Ron was still struggling to pounce on him, not even fighting the fierce urge – never surprising, really – to crash his fist into the plains of Draco's structured face.

"You _bastard_!" Ron raged.

"There's two of us and one of you. Your chances of survival are very slim, Malfoy, so just walk away while we're still letting you. _Now_."

"You lay one finger on me, Potter, you'll be expelled so fast you'll be out in the dirt streets of your pitiful Muggle home before you even know it. This will be your _second_ assault, and that calls for a Council Hearing, along with the rest of your life spent outside the wizarding world, toiling in hell. So just think about it for a second, Scarhead," he hissed. "Make the wrong decision, and you'll be right back where you started."

"I'm going to _kill_ you!" shouted Ron. "I'm going to _kill_ you, Malfoy! Let _go_ of me, Harry!" he yelled, squirming violently in a way that it was all too similar to how a fish would on land. Harry's hands had a tight grip on his robes, preventing him from going anywhere without getting choked by the collar of his shirt, which made his face flush even redder. "How _dare_ you prance down here like some Superior, Malfoy! I'll have your head!"

"_What_ do you want with Hermione?" Harry growled through clenched teeth, both of them ignoring Ron's cries. "You've got no business here, arsehole. Leave her _alone_."

"I'm _Head_ _Boy_," he snappily reminded him. "_She's_ Head Girl. We've got business together, whether either of you like it or not. So just _move_ out of the way before I _make_ you."

"_No_," they both said, Harry's stiffly furious voice in unison with Ron's high pitch from his bottled anger.

"_Fine_. Have it _your_ way," said Draco, as he tried to shove past them. However, his attempt did not go as smoothly as one would think. In fact, it did not go so smoothly at all.

They grabbed his arm, Harry having let go of Ron, who immediately dived at him. Draco was pushed down onto the ground with such painful momentum, a cut gasp of air squeezed from his lungs, pinned down by the incensed Gryffindor boy. He swung his fist back to hit him, but Draco wriggled his arm free in time and punched him right in the face. Right on target.

He leaned backwards, cupping his face in pain, and Draco immediately pushed him off of him to the floor, quickly standing up and dodging the headlock Harry tried to put him in.

There was a roar of yells, curses, and shouts, as suddenly, Draco felt something wrap tightly around his knees. He looked down to see Weasley's arms wound around his legs, but as he looked up, he hadn't moved quickly enough to duck a fist rapidly coming his way.

Again, he remembered scornfully. He should have seen this coming.

He could almost hear the crunch of his attacker's knuckles against his face as he felt an immense blow of pain blast through his skull, stepping back from the rockets of the vicious throbs of pain and astonishment.

Well. This was certainly a new sort of surprise.

Weasley, as dense as he was, had loosened his grip from the bewilderment of his friend's action. He had never known Harry could be so violent. For he, as odd as it was, was just looking at the other two boys with large eyes. He was just as shocked as Draco was.

Harry Potter had made the fierce hit.

"I'll have your head for this, Potter!" he shouted as he started towards him, pulling his fist back to prepare to provoke some major, bullet-up-the-arse pain.

But unfortunately, another interference occurred at that exact, same moment. It was obvious that favor was just not on Draco's side today.

The infirmary's doors violently swung open to reveal their annoyed, uptight nurse.

"_What_ in Merlin's name is going on out here? The racket you're causing is—"

And then it appeared that words were not enough. A shrill shriek filled their ears, and before Draco knew it, he felt his charging hand being tugged back with such force that his whole body was pulled backwards.

He landed on the floor on his bum, tingles of cold aches sparking up of his body. There was a tense silence that then followed that hinted something very, very terrible.

He looked up to see their Medi-Witch standing before him with a murderous look on her aged face.

oooo

Draco finally entered the hospital wing with his hand to his eye, wincing as he felt the tender skin surrounding his wound buzz and sting from the simplest touch of contact. He also heard a trill ringing in his ears from the screaming their nurse had mercilessly bestowed upon them.

He even cynically wondered if she had caused some permanent damage to his hearing – he wouldn't be surprised if she had. Her voice – screeching at them about their reckless behavior, threatening them about their very high chances of getting expelled, and most of all, the possibility of the occurrence of their death right there, outside in that corridor – was the equivalent of long nails clawing down a chalkboard. Except much, much worse.

At least chalkboards couldn't talk.

He heard three sets of footsteps behind him, along with the irritated mumbles of Madam Pomfrey as he could feel her glaring at him from behind. He managed a sneer, aware of his dreaded company, even though every tendon in his face screamed in agony from the simple motion.

"Sit down here, Mister Potter, Mister Weasley," Draco heard her stay in a terse manner. "And _don't_ move an inch."

"And, you," she barked at Draco. "Sit over there, on the bed beside Miss Granger's." Draco watched with amusement as the two boys' eyes widened in horror.

"But, Madam Pomfrey—"

"Mister Weasley," she snapped. "_Shush_. _Not_ another word, or else I will be sending Filch to tend to you. God knows he has a fixation for hanging students by their thumbs with rusty chains – maybe _that_ will straighten you three up."

She sent each of them a glare, her hands on her hips, as Draco sat down on the bed next to Hermione's. He took a moment to observe her, and it appeared that she was still unconscious or asleep. Somehow, watching her with her eyes closed and lying so still tugged at the corners of his heart. He even felt a pang of guilt, even though he perfectly knew very well that he had done nothing wrong.

"I will be fetching my supplies," she brusquely informed them, "and when I return, if I find out that any of you have moved from the spot I assigned you, that is detention for an extra week with Mister Filch himself, is that understood?"

All three boys nodded in silence.

She narrowed her eyes at them one final time before heading into her office.

Hermione Granger's eyes opened.

"Draco?" she asked quietly, barely a whisper, squinting slightly. Her face was as pale as ever. "Harry? And _Ron_? _What_ on _earth_ happened to you three?"

Draco felt his heart jump at the soft voice, instantaneously looking over towards the direction from which it came from. Although a portion of his vision was still quite blurry from the blow (hence the black eye), he could still make out the shocked face of the girl he had supposedly poisoned. His girlfriend.

He felt a sigh of relief silently escape from his mouth to see that she was conscious and not on the brink of death. Though, he was confused. Hadn't she just been asleep just a second ago?

"Hermione?" Harry and Ron both managed to choke out, surprised. "You're awake?"

"I was pretending to be asleep," she said, trying to speak louder but finding that her current volume was the farthest she could strain it to go. "I woke up when I heard the shouting." She then glanced at Draco, who, in return, smirked at her.

He felt a frenzy of butterflies flock inside his abdomen, while at the same time felt a vast, warm wave of release pass through his body.

Thank Goodness. Malfoys were never ones to cope well with worry.

"Granger," he nodded to her, too exhausted to even pretend to hate her.

She looked away, steadily meeting her two best friends' eyes across the room. The corners of his mouth were pulled down into a scowl as he saw this. He _hated_ the attention she always gave them.

Even over _him_!

"As much as I would like to scream at all of you at the moment," she sternly said, "I can't, considering my present state. But I will, later on, believe me, when I get a bit of my energy back." She paused, giving them all a threatening look that Draco had seen too many times before. "However, no one has to be a rocket scientist to know what happened between you three. I would just like to know why," she asked, calmly but coldly.

"Take a wild guess," Draco spoke aloud first.

"_No_, she will _not_ take a wild guess," Ron snapped quietly, still remembering the nurse's presence in the next room. "Malfoy wanted to _poison_ you again, that's what!"

"I did not!" he almost yelled, but keeping in mind the wrath of their Medi-Witch, contained it into a furious whisper. "I did _not_ poison her! How many bloody times do I have to tell you that I didn't, in fact, put _anything_ in the potion to make her faint?"

"It doesn't _matter_ how many times you tell us – you're a _liar_, and _lying_ is what you do, and-and we all know you did it!"

"Stop. _Stop_," she firmly said. "I don't _care_ who poisoned me."

Draco sent her a look for this. No one _poisoned_ her, for heaven's sake! Maybe Snape had (he was the best candidate if they were to play the blame-game), but _he_ sure didn't! Why wouldn't anyone believe him?

"I would just like to know why you have to go through such violent extremes to settle these matters!" she whispered harshly, annoyed. "Are you all dense?" she asked each of them, glaring. "Do you really want to get yourselves _expelled_? It's almost the end of the year, for Merlin's sake!"

Somehow, at her mention of the end of the year, Draco felt his mouth go dry.

"We were only trying to protect you, Hermione," Harry said to her in an even voice. "From Malfoy – I mean, who knows what reason he wanted to come visit you for, in the first place? You can't blame us for assuming that—"

"You _assumed_," said Hermione. "Assumption is never a good thing, Harry. I told you that."

"_Still_," he said, aggravated. "We did it for _you_. We _defended_ you."

"Defending a person involves talking through the mouth," she curtly informed them. "_Not_ through the fists."

"We _did_ defend you through our mouths!" said Ron. "You said so yourself that you heard us!"

"What I heard was _accusations_," she bitterly snapped, while a proud smirk attempted to make its way across Draco's face — she was _actually_ sticking up forhim. "And vulgar language, and yelling."

"You make it seem like you _want_ Malfoy in here!" cried Ron.

Harry, Hermione, and Draco noticeably tensed inside the room.

"And he _poisoned_ you in class! Have you gone _completely_ bonkers?"

"I _didn't_ poison her," he said again through gritted teeth. "I did my potion _perfectly_."

"Like hell!" snorted Harry.

"Please," interjected Hermione. "Don't start this again!"

"Potter, I think you should take that hyperactive fist of yours and shove it straight up your—"

Just then, Madam Pomfrey stepped out of her office with a few bottles in her hands and some other things floating after her in mid-air, causing Draco to immediately halt in mid-sentence. Draco grimaced at the fact that he did not get to finish his statement.

Oh well. He knew that they knew what he had been going to say, anyway. It didn't take a genius to fully realize a threat.

At least, it shouldn't.

"Miss Granger?" asked a stunned Madam Pomfrey, looking at Hermione with an astonished expression. "Awake already?"

"Yes," Hermione replied, uneasily. She hadn't had enough time to feign unconsciousness for the nurse had already come out and spotted her before she could even think of faking sleep again. "I… I was just thirsty," she lied.

The nurse nodded.

"Very well, then. I'll pour you a glass of water when I'm finished with these boys. Then I'll check your temperature and make sure everything's all right."

Hermione nodded.

She started with Potter, who had barely any wounds but some bruises and scratches. Draco hated it that he had come off clean with no physical harm – _he_ had been the one to attack him like he was some barbarian, for Merlin's sake!

Weasley, however, had gained a black eye from Draco (at which Draco was very proud of, thank you very much), and twitched as Madam Pomfrey applied a healing gel on his wound. But, from the looks of it, Draco knew that when his time came, he would be in the same painful position. It really was amazing how their modern world hadn't even made any healing tonics or the sort that caused no pain whatsoever. What were they doing? Pissing around while all of the young men in the wizarding world suffered in the hands of a vicious, unsympathetic nurse?

"Both of you may go," she told them, as she made her way over to Draco.

Harry and Ron exchanged looks of skepticism and hesitation.

"Actually, we'd like to stay here with Hermione. Just for a bit," Ron said.

"No," she steadfastly said. "Mister Weasley, Mister Potter, _leave_. Miss Granger needs her rest."

"But—"

She whipped around, glowering at them.

"Hermione, we'll see you later," said Ron quickly, getting off the bed as if it had burned him. He grabbed Harry and pulled him up, though it was obvious that Harry had been determined on keeping his spot and his eye on Draco. "We hope you get better soon."

He heard mumbling as finally, with one last look of qualm, they exited. But not before they managed to send Draco a look of hate and danger.

Just as he had predicted, the moment she had slathered on the icy gel on his wound, spanning from above his cheekbone to below his brow, his body gave out a tremendous jerk. He tried his best to stay still, and even tried biting down on his lip to prevent himself from vocally cursing in front of Madam Pomfrey, but the pain was horrendous. It stung, and it made both his eyes water with a vengeance.

His bruise heatedly throbbed as if his face had been beaten over and over again with a ball and chain (a medieval torture device) – and then some. In fact, it almost made him feel like a kid again. Heaven knows he had gained enough bruises and wounds from his father and his own rowdiness (he blamed it on male testosterone) when he was a child to last him a lifetime.

The tender, sore area on his face tingled furiously as she continued to apply the gel. He literally had to fight the urge to snatch the tube of Bruise B-Gone Balm from her hand and chuck it out the window.

He was, however, despite the aches of his abrasion, aware of the fact that Hermione was watching him very intently. He knew that this was only because his expression had morphed into one that appeared as if he had eaten an unbearably sour lemon.

It just charmed him to see that his girlfriend cared _so_ much about him.

"There," she said, capping the tube. "You are all done, Mister Malfoy. The discoloration will disappear within an hour or two, as will the pain. Avoid washing your face so the gel can set in. You may go."

Draco got up from the bed, brushing off his robes, before heading over to the doors. He could hear the nurse asking Hermione some questions as she tended to her, finally pouring her that glass of water, and he could also feel Hermione's eyes on him as he finally pulled open the doors and slipped out.

But some minutes later, when the coast was clear, the oaken doors silently opened once again, and in entered – for the second time that day – Draco Malfoy.

He slid in with amazing feline agility and poise, without a single sound, as Hermione watched him, her heart stopping for a moment. She should have known he would defy the nurse's rules.

He noiselessly pulled up a chair and sat down at her bedside.

Hermione had a grave and solemn look on her face. She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again. Her eyes met his as she started to unconsciously bite her lip, to Draco's great misfortune.

He was angry with her, for Merlin's sake! But how could he concentrate on lecturing her about all of her wrongdoings (and there were a number of them!) when she was doing that one thing Draco found to be irresistible? Oh, and worse! She didn't even _know_ it was irresistible!

"Good heavens, you look terrible," she whispered to him, flinching just at the sight of his wound, reaching up to his face and gliding her fingers against the smooth ivory of his skin. She was just to touch his vast bruise, almost painfully purple and blue against his fair skin, but hesitated and instead trailed her hand down, lightly brushing the tip of his posh nose.

Draco snorted, though he did savor the gentleness of her hands. But he was still very perturbed at the fact that each of their fingers had been and were still pointed in his direction for the incident like he was some lowly, desperate criminal.

He scoffed.

As _if_.

"Compliments of your best mates," he drawled sarcastically. "I'm glad you like it. Maybe they can give me two more shiners for your birthday!" he mocked enthusiastically. He sighed at the somber look she gave him, his jaw clenched in annoyance. "I don't understand why you're even friends with those volatile fools!"

"Sometimes, I don't, either," she said sadly. She lowered her hand down back to her side. "But they are. They've been there for me, all this time – Draco, please," she said, just as a bitter look had started to dawn on his face. "All I asked from you was to just control your temper."

"I did!" he exclaimed.

"Ssh!" she hastily whispered. "Not so loud."

Draco nodded exasperatedly, combing his long fingers through his hair.

"And, besides, I know for a _fact_ they wouldn't just have charged at you if you hadn't given them a reason to."

Draco glared at her.

"If you're saying that—"

"I'm just saying," she interrupted, "that a full-fledged fight involves participation from all its partakers. I'm not blaming you. I know Ron, and maybe even Harry, may have nasty tempers at times. But, but maybe if you'd just…"

"Granger," he firmly stopped her. "I did _nothing_ to provoke them. It isn't like I _forced_ them to come at me like some madcap, wild boar and proceed to try and kill me, you know."

That "I did nothing to provoke them" bit was somewhat like a lie. And the look she then sent him assured him that she knew just as much.

"I…I just can't understand why you three can't be civilized, even for a second," she whispered, her frustration showing through her voice. "How can the three people I— " she then suddenly froze, halting her words.

Draco eyed her curiously. "You what?"

"I…I spend most of my time with," she weakly continued, "hate each other with such a passion?"

"Don't forget _we_ weren't as friendly with each other, either," he dryly informed her. "You can't expect things between me and your wanky friends to just suddenly be all sunshine and butterflies."

"I wasn't expecting," she said earnestly. "I was _hoping_. And I don't even think things can ever measure up to that standard between you three… but at least on cultured terms. Is that too much to ask for?" she asked desperately.

"Unfortunately," he told her, "it is."

Hermione sighed again, this time much heavier, as she looked down.

"Who punched you? Was it Ron?" she quietly asked him.

"That's the thing. I _expected_ it from Weasley, which was why I was watching _him_. Well, obviously, wrong move."

"Wait, what?" she asked, flabbergasted. "It _wasn't_ Ron?"

"Apparently, Potter's new hobby is to physically injure me. And it seems he enjoys it very much," he scornfully replied.

She shook her head, her russet curls swaying with motion. "I don't believe this," she mumbled. "Harry? _Again_? Has he gone _completely_ mad?"

"I think he actually fancies you," he told her warily, quirking a brow – that is, his _other_ brow on the _other_ side of his face. The one that didn't make him flinch just from a single twitch of a muscle. "He's suddenly gotten very overprotective of you. I don't remember any of this Hero-Defender rubbish from our years before," he said. He tried to hide the bother in his voice, even though it did bother him to a great extent, the monstrosity that it was. "He's aiming for a broomstick shoved up his arse."

Hermione gave him a look.

"Don't be ridiculous," she told him. "Harry isn't like that. We're friends. _Strictly_ and _only_ friends."

Draco snorted, rolling his eyes. "_You_ know that, but does _he_?" he asked, almost cynically.

Hermione ignored him. "Was it true what he said? That you were really going to visit me?" she asked him.

He nodded.

"Can I ask why?" she then asked a few moments later, in a feeble voice.

"Why else?" he told her. "Because we're…" he paused, looking around. "You-know-what. And I wanted to straighten things out between us."

"Oh?"

"_Yes_, oh. Look, I don't know what rubbish Potter and Weasley have been shoving down your throat these last few hours… but I _didn't_ poison you, all right? I _didn't_. I swear I made my potion to the exact specifications in the book, and you saw it's color – it was blue! Indigo blue! And… even though I take great displeasure in saying this, bearing in mind that it _is_ a horrible Muggle truism – I would _never_ hurt you."

A small smile crept across her pale face.

"I know," she kindly said, endeared by what he had said. "There's no need to explain. I know you did your potion perfectly, and I know why I fainted. Madam Pomfrey explained it to me. I suppose Professor Snape knew it, as well. I think I've become some sort of legend," she chuckled weakly.

"What do you mean? Why did you faint?"

"Do you know… last night, when we were in the common room, studying, and I suddenly became… short of breath?"

Draco nodded, listening attentively.

"Well, I'd been having those attacks for quite a while now. It turns out that it was the side affects of overdosing on those Insomniac Potions," she guiltily confessed. "And there was an ingredient in the _Expugnibilis_ Potion that triggered my fainting. And, it was key, or so Madam Pomfrey told me. I don't know how… and I suppose I never will. For now, at least."

"And what was it? The ingredient?" he curiously asked, although he also wanted to ask why she hadn't told him about her "attacks." It disturbed him that she had just confessed it to him now, as if she hadn't even paid any mind to the idea of telling him before. He was sure she had been eager on keeping it from him (unless she undoubtedly would have told him), but why? Was she afraid of him?

"The Belmint root," she replied. "Madam Pomfrey's making me down a tonic every few hours to make sure the lasting affects of the Insomniac Potions are flushed out from my system."

"Good." The question was just on the tip of his tongue. He was utterly itching to ask her. And Malfoys never itched to do _anything_.

Silence.

"I take it you didn't tell Potter or Weasley that, then?" he asked her.

She shook her head, a sly smile on her face.

"I always knew you Gryffindors were a wicked lot."

More silence.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," she whispered, with an apologetic look on her face. "I didn't want you to worry."

Ah. So there it was.

Draco shook his head.

"I thought we established all this," he told her, not being able to hide the fact that he was mildly upset about her stubborn independence. "So, _you_ could have _died_, and _I_ would just be left here all alone without a _single_ clue. Not so charming, Granger. Pathetic, in fact."

Hermione frowned, looking away with a burdening sigh. "I'm sorry. I know I should have told you. I was an idiot not to."

Draco was silent but the worry clustering inside of her chest was relieved by the look in his eyes. He understood, and that was good enough.

"But, listen, I want to thank you for visiting me," she said, slightly uneasily. "I mean, you were a fool to, since I'd perfectly well understand why you wouldn't want to put up an appearance here. But you risked… a lot. A hefty load, Draco. And I don't know whether I should be concerned or happy about that."

Draco managed a small smirk. "We're in the same boat, then. Me neither."

And in light of the moment, despite his annoyance with her in the beginning as she _had_ been somewhat accusing him, he then slowly and hesitantly reached for her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. They were a bit colder than usual, but considering that she had been unconscious for the last five or six hours, he didn't dwell on the thought for too long.

But, this… _thing_ was certainly new to him. Draco Malfoy had never been the handholding type. And, Good God, he had never expected to be.

But the best part about it was – despite the fact that he knew he looked terrible – to his utter relief, she didn't pull away.

Hermione started to laugh. She did this softly, however, which seemed to be the only way she could speak or do anything that required the use of her vocal cords.

"As much as I'd like you to stay, you'd better go soon. I highly doubt you can escape Madam Pomfrey if she catches you – even if you are the fastest person I've ever seen slip inside a hospital wing without a sound. She can be pretty scary when she wants to be, you know."

"Well," said Draco nonchalantly. "That certainly goes without saying."

She smiled.

"Oh, and, Draco?"

"Yes?"

"You do know that I'm going to have to give you detention for what happened, right?"

Damn.


	31. In Flagrante Delicto

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or anything and/or anyone associated with it. But of course you already knew that. Oh, but I don't own **OxyClean**, either, nor am I trying to endorse it in any way. I am not associated with the makers of OxyClean or even anywhere close to being linked to them in that way.

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I thank all of you very, very much. I'd like to give you all a big hug… but then that'd be a lot of hugs. :) I'll give you all a cyberhug, instead. (Hugs you).

This chapter is dedicated to Jordan Lim and her crazy little friends who have been printing each chapter out and reading it in class. I applaud each of you. You are all very… clever. : ) You guys are awesome. Thanks for spreading the word, and so, to show you my gratitude, this chapter is for all of you.

**_In Flagrante Delicto_: "In the heat of the crime."**

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**In Flagrante Delicto**

Hermione was released from the hospital wing and (in Draco's words) the "evil clutches" of Madam Pomfrey the very next day, and, only a day after, unjust as it was, Draco was then required to serve his cruel detention sentence.

The next five days that followed, they scarcely spent any time alone together. Along with Draco's laboring hours scrubbing grime off of the floors and organizing dusty library books, exams were coming up, new, vast projects were blossoming from the depths of their professors' minds, and his business with Snape now demanded more than the usual ample amount of time. Hermione and Draco barely even saw a glance of each other beyond their meals in the Great Hall and the classes they shared with each other, which predictably bothered the pair of them, but they couldn't help the matters. And, the horrible thing was, even then, their minds were still clamored with different affairs.

For Draco, the epitome of his troubles and worries was the loathed Severus Snape. This was understandable, of course, because he was almost so positive that the man would betray him and his well-drawn out lines of privacy by telling his mother of his outburst. It was understood that it was his job, but, the worst part was, Draco didn't even know how to stop him. If he demanded that he not tell the Lady Malfoy, Snape would then know that it was indeed serious (or maybe even more serious than it really was) and therefore would find more reason to make his mother put a stop to it. But, if Draco didn't: a) ask; b) threaten him; c) command him to keep his mouth shut; or, d) all of the above, it then would seem as if he was _permitting_ him to tell his mother, or that he didn't care if he spilled the juice to the woman he was most desperate to hide it from – excluding the other important figures – at all.

And, damn it, he _did_ care. He cared more than he could even bear to admit, and there was no way he would have some un-groomed, greasy scarecrow muddle it up for him! After all, their relationship had just finally reached its steady flow, regardless of all the beatings he had endured and mental arguments he had had against it, and he didn't need another matter to disturb the currency it was presently in. Potter and Weasley's constant and intentional interferences were enough, mind you.

He would do anything to protect their relationship – but what if doing that meant endangering it even more? He didn't know what he should do, which path to action would lead him to success or relief, and he was feeling all too rushed about trying to find a solution. He now even doubted there was a solution. He was convinced it would all untangle and play out on its own, just as Granger had said once… but wasn't there a better way? A much less grueling, less painful, and less agonizing direction they could somehow take?

Draco sighed as he slumped down on the leather cushions of their common room. The leather was cool against his skin, smooth and refreshing, suddenly making the thought of taking a cold bath very, very tempting and attractive. After all, why wouldn't it be? After spending a total of five or six hours surrounded by dust, cobwebs, and the musty spell of ancient books (he had also encountered his share of vicious moths), all he wanted to do was scrub himself clean in ice-cold, freezing water. He could swear the stale stench of the library was permanently embedded into his skin and clothes.

If he did spend the rest of his life reeking of moldy _Hogwarts: An Ancient History_ (the oldest and unaltered edition of his girlfriend's inanimate best friend), he told himself he would kill Madam Pince. And then, after, if he were still feeling quite perturbed, he would burn the library. That is, if possible, of course – meaning that if Hermione would let him. He highly doubted it. She loved the place more than should be allowed.

He sighed heavily, lolling his head back against the cushion.

He pointed his wand to the fireplace and tiredly said aloud a spell in monotone as a burst of fire suddenly roared in the hearth. The glowing flame played inside of bricked concave, sending out a radiant essence and causing blazing embers to sweep out in front of him.

The twin hands of the clock read twelve forty-five, but he felt as if it was much later than that. His body felt like a stiff block of lead, unmovable and heavy. (He imagined that this was how Crabbe and Goyle felt like after every meal or day shoveling food into their mouths as if they were to starve of a famine later on. But, it wasn't as if the idea of them starving was even possible. There was enough meat stored in their systems they could feed a whole third world country – separately.) He wanted so much just to fall asleep on this couch until morning, but he longed to be in the gloomy comfort of his room. He also longed to be in the warm comfort of his girlfriend, as pathetic as it may sound, but he had a feeling that she was already asleep. Otherwise he would have knocked on her door and insisted like a stubborn prat that she come and spend some time with him.

Some time snogging, preferably. He was never too tired for snogging.

As tempting as the subject of snogging was, his mind then started to wander and came to thinking about how it had been before her sudden importance in his current life. He wasn't going to lie: it hadn't necessarily been so horrible. After all, he was feared, he was wealthy, he had a reputation, and he still was… but it was as if, the moment he had kissed her out in the corridor, he had found something that he never knew he would ever need. It was… different, wholesome. Confusing as shit, yes, but it made his life seem a bit more bearable, knowing that there was at least one more person – besides his mother – who saw something good in him. Something worth staying around for, something worth trying for.

Whatever that meant.

But he had also been thinking a sufficient amount about their relationship. He had never known he could care for someone else other than himself (and the obvious, again, though it was not as clear as one would like it to be: his mother), let alone care for a Muggle-born, stubborn girl so profoundly. Because, for heaven's sake, he had _hated_ her with a fiery, blazing passion. It just astounded him and even frightened him that such a thing was even possible. From hate to… something like _this_? He shuddered to think what would have happened if his feelings had remarkably changed for someone else _other_ than her.

Ugh, what if he had suddenly gotten too friendly on _Harry_ _Potter_? Or, worse, _Weasley_?

Draco scrunched up his face with disgust, almost gagging, revolted from his crude thoughts. He presumed he really was barmy, now, for even his thoughts were sick, repulsive, and going haywire in the tornado of horrible things he was certain he could never even imagine if he wasn't so exhausted. He desperately needed to head to bed before he could think of even worse things that would make him choke up all the dust he had inhaled from the back shelves of the library all over the common room floor – along with his dinner.

"This stupid school," he grumbled, as he finally got himself to sit up. "It isn't even worth half of what I pay to go here." He partially even blamed Granger. If she wasn't so damned righteous and such a do-gooder all the bloody time, he wouldn't be suffering from his arduous tasks and the cloud of dirt clustering up inside his lungs that he feared would form into some type of illness or disease.

But, then again, he shouldn't have expected anything less from her, just like she didn't expect him to be any less of a prick when it came to her friends, since, let's face it, it was well-deserved, anyway. He had always known she was the sort to do the right things even if it meant giving backaches, sore arms, blistered fingers and moments when he was almost positive he was going to cough up one of his lungs to – and this was in _his_ exact words, not hers – "the best thing that had ever happened to her in… ever." He understood, to word it much clearly, as odd and disturbing as it was. She had her quirks; he had his. Ironically, though it was a very well known fact that they were almost the complete opposite of each other – they fit.

Now, don't ask how he came up with such a thing. He, himself, didn't even know, either. It was amazing that while his whole body didn't even have enough energy to move, his mind appeared to be working on overdrive.

He slowly stood up, staring at the fire with weary eyes. He was just about to extinguish the blaze with a simple water spell when he heard a noise.

He instantly froze.

But to his relief, it was only Hermione, who no sooner walked out of the loo with her hair in damp curls, a soft pink towel in her hands, and a content face.

Draco stared at her. She had been in there, all this time? What had she been doing? Cleaning the whole place? Swimming with dolphins? Good _God_.

"It's nice to know that you were having a blast bathing while I was toiling in the confines of hell," he drawled, as she suddenly halted in the middle of the pathway to her room. Her eyes met his, and her face suddenly glowed with a brilliant smile, despite his remark. He figured this was probably because she thought he was being sarcastic.

"Draco," she beamed, still fluffing her wet hair dry with her towel. "You're back."

"Thank you for noticing," he dryly said.

She sighed. "I thought you said that you weren't angry with me," she said, quietly.

"I'm not," he casually told her. He sat back down, forgetting all about his weariness and the fact that he had been all too eager to get to bed. Somehow, having her here with him made him feel stronger to fight off the sleepy daze that dared to overcome him. He had read something about this before… wasn't it something about her aura, or something? He couldn't remember. He had never really paid attention to that Divination rubbish. After all, who would? Fixing up tealeaves in Crabbe's and Goyle's teacups to form the signs of the oh-so-terrible foreboding futures of death was much more entertaining than listening to some insect-like woman ramble on and on about pointless fortune telling.

Hermione lowered her towel and made her way to the couch, taking the seat next to him.

Almost immediately, Draco caught a whiff of her scent. It was fragrant and sweet, almost in a way that made his mouth water and made him want to dig his face in her hair to bury himself in her mesmerizing aroma. And, oh, Merlin, did it make his heart quiver. In an instant, he knew that she was about the sweetest, nicest-smelling girl he had ever smelt before — not that he had actually gone around and started sniffing everything with breasts, other womanly body parts, and reproductive organs, of course. No. He just somehow knew that no other girl could smell better than she did. Odd.

In fact, she smelled so good that it almost made the matter that had been boiling inside his skull disappear completely from his mind, as well as his intention of confronting her about it. But the key word was: _almost_.

"I'm sorry," she told him. "I know it's horrible, and downright awful… but it was the right thing to do, especially since I'm Head Girl. I mean, just because we're involved doesn't mean I can just ignore my duties—"

"I didn't bring this subject up for discussion, Granger," he interrupted, seeing how she was getting worked up about it, upset at the possibility that he might be angry with her because he had expected her to let him off easy – which needless to say, she hadn't. She was sickeningly fair that way. "And I'm not angry with you, for the hundredth bloody time. It's just Potter and Weasley, that's all," he said, not hesitating to show the bother in his voice. "Those nutty pricks."

Ah, honesty. He had always heard that it was the best policy.

It really was no lie that her two friends were getting on his last nerves.

"Oh no. What is it about them now?" she tiredly sighed.

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed!" he exclaimed, his sudden exasperated timbre surprising her a little. "You three are inseparable — literally! They're at your side all the sodding time as if they're permanently _attached_ to you! It's like you three are bloody Siamese Triplets!"

"They're… they're only looking out for me," she answered defensively, but at the same time, in a shockingly feeble voice. Draco looked at her.

"Look… they suspect something," she confessed. "I've tried to make sure that I've swiped the idea clean from their mind by spending more time with them, and that's why I haven't been able to meet you here… but, you know, you haven't exactly been open for any available meet-up dates, either."

He gave her a look.

"Granger…"

"I know, I know," she said, looking away, but Draco had caught the frosty, bitter tone in her voice that she hadn't managed to hide. "Unavoidable business. As always."

"Well, _you_ were the one who assigned me two weeks of detention!"

"I thought you said you weren't angry with me about that," she said, aggravated.

"I'm not!"

"Then why do you keep—?"

"Granger, just listen to me," he firmly said. "I am _not_ angry with you about that. Bothered, yes. Annoyed, a little. But I'm not angry. I'm more angry and bothered at the fact that Potter and Weasley are watching you like they're a pair of hired detectives or neurotic stalkers of some sort." He cursed under his breath. "And me, as if I was an assassin sent out with direct orders to kill you."

"I told them to stop," she sighed.

"Oh, you did? It's terribly hard to tell. Their promising looks of pain sent in my direction once every five seconds still make me feel like a celebrity," he sarcastically jibed. "You should try it sometime, you know. It makes me feel all warm inside."

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Must we _always_ argue about them whenever we're together?"

"That's just it. We're _never_ together. Not anymore, at least. While _you're_ busy kissing their arses and doing whatever the hell it is you're trying to do, I'm either stuck with Snape or on my knees scraping the grunge off of neglected floors with some pathetically useless Muggle cleaning product called OxyClean," he snapped. "I'm tired, my body's sore, my back hurts, my fingers burn, and I haven't gotten a single good night's sleep in a _week_. A _whole_ week."

After his rather cold rant, Hermione only looked at him, speechless for a few moments, a look of hurt flashing across her face. There was a knot in her throat that made her want to scream at him and tell him that this was bothering her just as much as it was bothering him, but her mouth had suddenly gotten so arid and dry that her words would have cracked before they even made it past her lips. Her heart was suspended into mute beats inside her chest.

She looked down at her hands, fingering the seam of her towel.

"I am _not_ 'kissing their _arses'_," she bitterly replied, "for your information. I'm only trying to protect our relationship, and I apologize if you can't see that."

"I know what you're trying to do," he said, slightly frustrated. "And I appreciate it. I'm trying to do the same as well. But, in the end, it doesn't matter what you do – they'll have to form their own opinions about us, about everything, on their own, disregarding everything people do and say. I just can't help but think that when we're out there doing all we can to convince the world that we're still the same as before, we're ruining what we have _here_."

Hermione remained wordless for a few, long seconds, before she finally looked up and met his eyes. She spoke in a volume barely above a whisper, this time.

"I agree."

Draco gave her an intent look, their seriousness about the matters of their secret relationship making him feel slightly better. At least he knew she was doing all she could to protect their terms, as well.

He sighed. "Good," he said. But, before he could let out another word, she had already thrown her arms around his neck and hugged him close, tightly, startling Draco for a quick instant. His eyes widened, unprepared and knowing that he certainly hadn't seen that coming. He then hesitantly raised his hands and wrapped his arms around her, too.

He had never actually hugged anyone before, at least, no one within the last ten or eleven years or so of his life. But, what with her pleasant smell, her soft figure pressed against his, and the glowing warmth that seemed to be radiating from her petite form, he didn't think a hug from anyone else could feel any better.

The drumming in his chest became a bit more aggressive, a little louder, as he found himself closing his eyes and firmly holding her close, automatically focusing in on how she felt inside his arms. There was a comfort that instantaneously constructed and lit up inside him when she had embraced him. He had never known anything like it before, which was why he was a bit frightened, at first. But now, as he found himself inhaling her natural, heavenly fragrance, hugging her frame close to his, and wondering if the loud beating he heard inside his ears was the result of their two pounding hearts combined, he found it hard to be frightened about anything at all.

It was a while before they both pulled back, but when they did, Hermione found a completely different look in his silver eyes. And Draco found it in her eyes, as well.

"A compromise," she whispered, her face entirely hopeful and sincere. "Tomorrow. I'll tell Harry and Ron that I'm going to be studying all day inside my room, and that way they can't pester me. Cancel all of your plans tomorrow. We have to make this work."

"No can do, Granger," he gravely said. Her face fell, ashen. "Meeting with Snape tomorrow — lasts all day. He even advised me to bring a sleeping bag." He visibly shuddered.

Her face had gotten so colorless and downcast that Draco almost couldn't keep back his laughter.

"Wha—"

"I'm only joking, Granger," he laughed, placing a soft kiss on her pouting lips, his gray eyes suddenly sparkling with amusement. Hermione sternly frowned at him. "My whole day's yours tomorrow – to do whatever you want. Of course, I still have my detention…"

"I can't believe you can joke about that!" she huffed. "After what we had just talked about, after what we had just discussed, you make it seem like it was all some mockery—"

"Relax," he told her.

"No, I will _not_ relax!" she fumed. "I _can't_ relax! _Not_ when you insist on taking everything serious and entirely grave and turning it into some piece of hilarity!"

"Believe me, Granger, if you wanted hilarity, I can give far better jokes than that," he smirked.

She gaped at him. "I _cannot_ believe you! You have got _some_ nerve!"

He grabbed her shoulders.

"Tomorrow," he repeated resolutely. "It's a plan. If you back out, I _will_ hunt you down and force you to read all of the horrible essays I've had to correct with Professor McGonagall, a_nd_ shovel the manure into the Sprout's new shipment of shatterproof pots. Understood?"

Hermione looked at him with a skeptical look on her face, before sighing.

"It's a plan."

Draco smirked. "You know, we could really do without all of your huffing. It wastes more time that way. Maybe _you're_ the one who needs to control your temper."

And before Hermione could scream at him any more for his rather rude remark, he had crashed his lips against hers, stifling any and all of her oncoming objections.

oooo

The next day dawned bright and glorious as they both met up in the common room just after they had freshened up and gotten dressed to head to the Great Hall for breakfast.

Hermione, who was just like every other girl, dressed down for the weekends. Merely clad in a simple skirt and a pale, daisy-colored shirt, she smiled at Draco as she walked down to the couches. He greeted her back with one of his rare smiles.

"Good morning," she happily told him, feeling ridiculously cheerful for reason that she knew that today was going to be spent with him and only him.

"Likewise," he smirked, as he leaned down to kiss her, Hermione catching a hint of his minty breath.

He kissed her softly, slowly, as she lightly laid her hands on his sides, feeling the cool, expensive material of his traditional dark button-down shirt against her fingers.

A rarity for Draco, he had woken up genuinely content this morning. Happy, even. He knew this was because he was to spend his entire day with his girlfriend – far away from the prying eyes (coughPottercoughWeasleycough) of their nosy public – without any interruptions and interferences. He knew that they were both due for a good snogging session right about now, anyhow. But, nevertheless, he was pleased to having made this compromise with her, even though he did have a feeling that something not so good was going to happen today, as well.

A short moment later, Hermione was the first one out of the common room and out to the famished crowds assembling to the Great Hall. Draco left about ten minutes later, also following the masses.

They both took to their tables, Hermione taking her normal seat beside Harry and Ron, with Ginny in front of her. They greeted her a good morning, and she smiled as she returned their polite words.

"Hogsmeade weekend today, Hermione," grinned Ginny. "I was thinking maybe you and I could go and check out that new shop I keep hearing about from Lavender and Parvati. I'm craving for some new clothes."

"Sorry, Ginny," Hermione replied, giving her an apologetic smile. "I can't. I've got to study all day today."

"On a _weekend_?" choked out Ron, before shaking his head and mumbling to himself about her predictability.

Hermione glared at him. "Exams are coming up, and I want to make sure I've reviewed everything so I'll be prepared," she said in a clear and matter-of-fact tenor, the most Hermione Granger-esque tone that she was known for.

"You can't take exams if you're dead, I hope you know," he snorted. This time, Harry elbowed him for his crude witticism.

"Are you sure, Hermione? The Three Broomsticks are having that special day today, you know, with the performers and bands. It's the first night of their Open Mic."

She shifted uneasily in her seat.

"I don't do well with big crowds," she told him. "I get claustrophobic."

"Well, we can just stay here, if you'd like—"

"Harry, are you bonkers?" exclaimed Ron, small pieces of his toast flying out of his mouth. Disgusted groans peppered the Gryffindor table as both Hermione and Ginny wiped their faces, scolding him about the no-talking-while-chewing meal etiquette he always seemed to forget.

"I've got this whole scheme planned out for Open Mic!" he said. "Remember? We're going to try and get Seamus or Neville drunk silly out of their wits and then make them sing up on the stage! Preferably some hideously sappy and horrible Muggle song! Y'know, that one about hitting a baby one more time! And, I've already got the camera!" His enthusiastic hand gestures nearly knocked over Harry's goblet.

"_Ronald Weasley!"_ huffed Ginny. "You-you are a-a _horrible_ person!" she fumed. "How dare you even think of doing that to your friends! And to _Neville_ and _Seamus_!"

"It's called 'having a good time', Gin," he snapped. "Besides, it's only a joke, and it's perfectly harmless. And, if you're going to be such a prude, stay out of my business."

"Ron—" Harry started, moving his goblet away from his friend to his other side.

"You're turning into Fred and George!" she cried.

"Am _not_!"

"Wait, _wait_!" Hermione called out, silencing them. She gave Ron a look. "Whatever you do – knowing that whatever I even attempt to say will go in one ear and out the other – you'd better get Seamus and Neville back here _safely_. And I mean it, Ron. _Safely_."

Ron smirked proudly.

"I couldn't be so cruel," he said, sending Ginny a haughty look, as she glowered at him.

"And, Harry… you need to go," she said, turning to her concerned friend. "You've got to watch over Ron. Make sure nothing extremely horrid happens, all right? I'll be just fine. I'm just going to be in my room all day, with my books."

"Are you certain?" he persisted. "Because I can stay, if you'd like."

"I'm certain. You go. Have fun with Ron, but not too much, understand? I don't want to see anyone running through the halls in the late hours of the night, _stark _naked, and screaming because they're smashed silly."

Harry, Ginny, and Ron all raised their brows at her in surprise.

"What?" she mumbled. "It's happened before."

oooo

When Hermione made it back to the comfort of her room, she was far beyond relieved. Harry had pestered her insistently (three guesses why) about her going to Hogsmeade with them or him just staying along with her, but each time, even as annoyed as she had been, she had declined mannerly. She literally had to push him on like a broken-down automobile to finally get him walking towards the village with Ron and Ginny.

She didn't know if Draco was in yet, but she figured she would stay in her room for a few minutes to look over what assignments she still had to review for tomorrow. Or today, if their meet-up was cut short, which she desperately hoped wouldn't be the case.

When she did venture out into the common room, a book in her hands, she was pleased to see that Draco was also just getting out of his room at the exact moment. Instantly, their eyes met and she smiled.

She walked over to the couches and sat down.

Draco sat down beside her, eyeing her book that was laid on her lap.

"A _book_?" he asked inquisitively.

"Of course," she answered, startled at his question. "You didn't think we were just going to snog for a whole seven hours, did you?"

"I wouldn't have minded," he told her defensively, and Hermione shook her head, grinning faintly. "I mean, what was the purpose of this anyway, if we weren't going to snog?"

"I didn't say we _weren't_ going to snog," she told him with a very mischievous smile. "But I highly doubt either of us fancy each other that much to go at it for a whole seven hours. We'd be blue by then."

"There are things called breaks. Bathroom breaks, even. Good _heavens_, Granger. Did you really expect that I was going to let you read some book today? If you did, then you are _highly_ mistaken."

Hermione smiled. She set the book down on the floor by the foot of the couch, finally relenting to the points of his argument.

"We'll see," she devilishly grinned, and, smirking, Draco leaned in and kissed her.

It was ridiculous to think that Hermione had forgotten what it was like to kiss Draco, but it was true. They hadn't had an intense snogging session in quite a while (she was embarrassed to say exactly how long), and she knew as well as he did that when they did succumb into a full-fledged snog, his kisses differed very much from when he kissed her good morning or goodnight. They were much more… passionate, zealous. And it really was no lie when girls said that Draco Malfoy absolutely knew how to kiss a girl straight out of her wits, because, good Merlin, he _could_. He could kiss a girl and drive her mad just as Neville Longbottom could muddle up a potion and blow up the entire Potions classroom and all of its occupants within seconds. He was _that_ good.

Hermione even began to wonder how he became that way. Experienced, skilled. She knew that maybe he had had his share of kisses, but thinking about that made her feel awfully jealous and scornful. He had been _her_ first real kiss, but had she been _his_? She highly doubted it.

He pressed her against the leather cushions, the soft material molding against her back. His arms were wound tightly around her waist, his hair slightly tickling the side of her face, as her fingers clutched his sides. She could already feel her feet tangled with his, the smooth fabric of his dark trousers against the warm flesh of her legs.

But, to her surprise, he suddenly pulled back, his lips parting from hers.

"Comfortable?" he asked her, in a single breath.

"Uh huh," she managed to whisper, nodding her head, before he kissed her again.

Recalling his "single" years and all of the beautiful girls the Malfoy Balls had brought to the manor before, he could remember that each year he had kissed someone different. Now, naturally, he couldn't remember their faces, or their names, or even if they had really been that beautiful, but he knew that his lips had been preoccupied before the night was even over. Not to mention, he was also always a bit more intoxicated than was even legal. But he did try to remember… had any of the girls he had snogged been worth it? Yes, he didn't know them, yet he had flattered them with his charm and looks within a mere ten minutes. But the thing was, he didn't even have to work hard. At all. He didn't even have to try.

See, catching Hermione Granger had not been an easy task, especially for him. After all, she had hated him; he had hated her. The transition from loathing to liking one's presence may be seen as easy in some cases, but, considering their terms, it had been gradual, hesitant, and somewhat slow. However, the growth of their feelings was not. At least, not as much. But their actions, reckless or not, had certainly been on pure impulse or instinct. It was only with her that he could have times when he could be thinking so hard or not thinking at all. There had even been a few accidental, unintentional kisses before they had officially realized the strength of their feelings, decided which course of action to take, and that they were formally together. She – he knew – could never be one of the girls he would inevitably woo at the Balls.

Maybe that was why he liked her. She wasn't easy; she wasn't weak or giving. She put up a fight, she was fiery, she was passionate, and she always knew what she wanted. She didn't put up with any rubbish. He had never come across someone like her before, and he figured that that was probably why he had hated her at first. He had been intimidated and threatened, because he knew that if she put her mind to it, she could kill him. Seriously.

But he had never thought that he'd be… in love with her.

Madly, even. Enough to try, enough to push aside his pride and pure-blood beliefs, enough to cross all of the laws and lines that had been set out for him from the very start. He was risking so many things to be with her: his reputation, his heart, his family, his life. And he knew she was doing the same. It certainly wasn't easy. But as banal as it could ever be, when he was with her, or even near her, it was. Easy. Her presence made him put things into a brighter perspective, a more optimistic one that he had always hated because he could never see matters in such a light. But, look at him now. He _was_ in that light, he _was_ using trite Muggle clichés, and he had even held her hand. He was becoming everything he had loathed and made fun of for years and years, and he didn't even care.

All right, yes, he _did_ care, but that was beside the point.

Jealousy, angst, joy, passion…. He was like a bloody book of emotions when it came to her. He wondered if that was a good thing.

She turned away when she had to catch her breath, but he took this as an opportunity to trail his mouth down her neck, causing a sigh of air to hitch in her throat.

He couldn't blame her, though she was catching on awfully fast. She wasn't used to this – kissing. A lot. In his case, the reason he seemed to go on without turning blue from lack of air is that his lungs had stretched over the years, enabling him to refuse breathing for a longer amount of time than most folks. What could he say? He had had practice.

He could hear her ragged breaths against his ear as she shifted beneath him, feeling her leg move against his.

His hands brushed against the thin fabric of her yellow shirt, fingering the seam of her proper khaki pleated skirt. It astounded him how she could dress so… maturely. Because, though this was on a rather random note, he had seen her weekend outfits before – always simple, always appropriate. He had never seen her expose one single inch of her body that was not already shown (with the proud exception of her pajamas and her Weasley-altered, very short skirt that he liked, thank you very much), and that struck him as odd. She had never dressed to impress. Could it be that it was because she never sought out to impress anyone in this school? She dressed pleasantly, of course, and he even found it appealing. Nice and simple. It was so rare to describe anyone's wardrobe – most especially the girls of their generation – as only that, with those two words. Every girl he had laid eyes on bought clothes that purposely tried to highlight their proudest parts, which was not horrible, of course… but it was nice to see something different. Much different.

He had always had a soft spot in his heart for girls who dressed professionally. It was more mysterious that way.

It surprised him when he suddenly felt her gentle hands on his face, as she softly steered it up so that he was looking straight into her eyes. And then, she closed the space in between their faces and captured his mouth with hers.

Draco couldn't help but slightly smile as she kissed him. There was something distinct about her kisses, something that made them… well, special, if you will. He didn't understand it, either, but it just was, somehow. Her kissing him was almost like an out-of-body experience for him, and he had never known snogging someone could ever be so near to something so surreal and mystical. If someone had told him before – back in his Hermione Granger hating days – that he would be kissing her and sinfully liking it – hell, loving it – with every drop of his pure-blood body, he would've thrown his head back, laughed, and then hexed that certain individual all the way to Pluto.

It was actually funny to him to see how many things had changed from then. But, though not all of them were as conspicuous (he doubted more than three things had really changed about him since his Superior days), there was also that sliver of fear inside him to see how the transition had been almost so effortless. He even thought maybe it had happened during his sleep. He just didn't know. But, see, the thing was, it was only today he was noticing all this. Had he been dense before?

But, nevertheless, he couldn't think of any other way to spend his weekend. Almost all of the castle had emptied out to Hogsmeade Village, no interruptions, no interferences, no two bothersome arseholes that she supposedly called her friends to come knocking down their door and dragging her away from him… it was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Nothing could ruin it now, nothing could ever—

Suddenly, Draco felt cold air sweep into the room that made the hair on the back of his neck suddenly rise.

"Well, Draco, if I knew you were going to be busy, I would've come at a more appropriate time."

The icy drawl, almost identical to his, sent his spine to go rigid, his eyes wide with shock. And suddenly, from the cruel impact of surprise, he fell from the couch to the ground.

He let out a groan, squinting his eyes closed in pain as buzzing tingles rocketed up his back. The carpet didn't help his fall any, either. The floor was still as hard as ever.

He heard a gasp come from Hermione's direction.

"Oh… Good… God."

He rapidly got on his feet, and he felt his whole body freeze over at the sight of the man standing two steps from the common room entrance, sneering. His shoulders were high with superiority, back straight, with his long, blond hair in a ponytail that Draco had always seen as hilariously feminine. The same piercing, steely, silver eyes were staring him back in the face.

He felt his heart stop, mid-beat, inside his chest.

Oh… _fuck_.

The narrowed eyes then flickered over to Hermione, who was as pale as a sheet and looked as if she was going to fall to the floor in a dead faint any second now. Her eyes were large with shock, worry and fear.

"Miss Granger, am I correct?" he drawled, his upper lip curling. "What a pleasant surprise."

Draco knew what that meant. His father actually meant that it was anything but.

Draco slowly neared her, swallowing hard to extinguish the sudden swelling in his throat, a protective gleam inside his eyes. He grabbed her hand, still watching his father, kneeled down, and faced her, his face stony and resolute.

"Go to your room," he firmly whispered to her, so that the other occupant in the room could not hear him. Hermione looked at him with frightened eyes, nodding slightly. "Go inside and lock the door, understand? I don't want you to come out until I come and get you." She stayed wordless, looking at him worriedly. "Go," he harshly said. "Go _now_."

He backed away as she stood, giving him one last look full of apprehension as she quickly and warily headed to her room. Draco watched as she said her password to the portrait, who was looking at both him and his father with a suspicious look in her eyes, barely audible from their distance. Her door closed firmly behind her, Draco hearing the turn of the locks inside her room. After he was certain that she was safe, he turned to the man standing but a few paces away from him.

"What are you doing here?" Draco asked frigidly.

"Privacy," said Lucius Malfoy, eyeing the watching portrait with distaste. "We need privacy."

Cautiously, he nodded, before going to his room, his father following close behind. He whispered his password, hearing the locks revolve, and then entered. His father was only a step after his heel.

"What are you doing here?" Draco whipped around furiously as soon as the door had locked, repeating his question. His eyes were glinting with anger.

Smirking, Lucius drew his wand and said a barricade of spells all at once. Draco's window immediately closed, the curtains drawing completely shut, as Archer, his owl, and Guinevere suddenly fell into a deep stupor, and a translucent shield shimmered around his room before disappearing. In the darkness of his room, a mere candle lit up to ease their eyes.

He slipped his wand back into his cane.

"Albus summoned me here," the older Malfoy said coolly and calmly, in a quiet volume so well played that it still sent shivers to slither down his spine. "One of our letters was almost intercepted."

"What? By who?" Draco asked, still livid, but now also curious and concerned.

"That's just it. We don't have a clue. But, for the time being, when I have important plans to inform you of, I'll come here." The smirk on his face widened. "After all, your father has an image to uphold, does he not? Occasionally plaguing the halls with terror? Threatening the school's staff to his utter satisfaction? And, though he was dropped as one of the school's governors, he still has the need to check up on his son and his doings. So just pretend that's what I'm here to do. To be Lucius."

oooo

Hermione was sitting immobile on her bed, completely still and motionless.

Lucius Malfoy had caught them. _Lucius Malfoy._

And, worse, he had caught them in flagrante.

She was staring at her door, as if expecting that, any moment now, it would suddenly and violently be knocked down and he would kill her with a flash of green light and a swish of his wand before she could even scream out for help.

Her body felt stiff, icy, as if her blood had halted in its rotation in her body and veins. She wouldn't be surprised if it had. It certainly felt as if it did. She felt as if she couldn't move, and that if she did, she would crumble away into a rumble of dust and rock as soon as she touched a toe to the ground.

Her mind was rushing with a million questions, accusations, and pointed fingers all at once. But the screeching in her head could not compare to the crushing and fitful seizure hammering inside her chest.

She felt as if she was lapsing into a silent, terrorizing madness.

She couldn't believe their utter foolishness. Honestly! Just out there in the _common room_? She _knew_ she should have invited him into her room! But, how had _Lucius_ entered in the first place? Had Draco told him the password? Could it be possible that Draco had known he was to come? But, if that was the case, then why? What did Lucius want from him?

But Draco had appeared to be just as shocked as she was.

Hermione swallowed hard, wringing her hands.

Oh, Merlin. Draco. What about Draco? What was his father going to do to him? What if he was going to hurt him?

Hermione dug her head inside of her hands, finding it very difficult to refuse the urge to cry.

It didn't take a genius to know that they had now put both their lives in absolute danger.

She knew that at this moment, following this instant, after they had both been exposed to the malicious eyes of Draco's father in such an apparent position, there would be hell to pay. Absolute, and utter hell.

Now, she didn't know about his relationship with his father, for she felt that they weren't at the certain point in their relationship yet to ask, but, judging from his instant reaction to the Senior Malfoy's presence, it was not a very good one. She couldn't help but to wonder frantically about what was happening inside that very room at this moment and about Draco's safety – was she, just by leaving him alone with his father in a locked room, endangering his life? Was Draco safe? Did he even have his wand handy or at a close proximity so that he could easily grasp it to defend himself?

Hermione didn't know much about the older Malfoy, but she had heard some frightening rumors here or there. She had read the articles in the Daily Prophet about his offenses against the Ministry and his relations with the Dark Lord and attacks, and she had also heard Harry's story about Tom Riddle's diary, leading to the time he had almost attacked him in the corridor, after he had gone and given Dobby a sock to release him from his eternal servitude sentence to the Malfoys. It was obvious that he certainly had the most twisted views of everything, and that he also had an iron heart colored coal-black to match it. He was a cruel, pitiless, cold man. A bastard, too, at that.

But, even if he was the nastiest there was, Lucius wouldn't hurt his own son… would he?

Hermione looked fearfully over at her door.

She knew that Draco had told her to stay in her room until he came and got her when the coast was clear… but what if he was hurt? What if his father had hurt him so badly that he could not even make it past his door? And she, unknowing and so certain that Lucius Malfoy would not do such thing, would just sit in her room, waiting, while he slowly bled to death! This was certainly not an attractive idea to Hermione. She had to do something_, anything_. But, she knew that if she did, then there was a possibility that she, herself, would also be endangering herself just by stepping an inch out of her room.

But, what if Draco was hurt and he was calling out for help? What if he was yelling out for her to help him and she couldn't hear him? What if, when she finally mustered enough nerve to go to his room, he was already dead?

She groaned in agony and despair. She absolutely _hated_ What If questions.

Still staring fretfully at her door and hastily grabbing her wand from her bedside, feeling more concerned and scared than she had ever been in her entire lifetime, she stood up.

She hesitantly walked towards her door; pressing her palm against the cool steel of the doorknob while her other palm tightly gripped the wood of her wand in cold sweat. And, slowly, ever so slowly, she began to open her door…


	32. Secrets of the Malfoys

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: In another lifetime, maybe I would've owned Harry Potter. Then again, maybe not. J.K. Rowling obviously had dibs on HP first, and so, sadly, Harry Potter belongs to her and only her.

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So this is for my uncle Robert who is actually the one to thank for this chapter, my beta who is always fantastic, and all of you who are reading this right now. Thank you a million times. Oh, and also to God, for fanfiction and everything else. :) Cheers.

**Note: quotes without citing are of creative origins of author's mind. **

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**Secrets of the Malfoys**

"_**This secret of mine is like an angry hippo in a cage."**_

An eerie smile slowly crawled across the face of Lucius Malfoy. His stony-silver eyes glimmered sinisterly, almost wryly. Draco remained silent, tightlipped, his face grave and momentous. Even now the wicked smile of his father managed to send shivers down his spine.

"Severus warned me about your… growing fondness of the girl," he

drawled slowly, as if making sure Draco heard every word. "A Gryffindor, am I correct? And a Muggle-born?"

"That's none of your business," Draco harshly replied. "You've already come and told me about the situation, and I understand the precautions we now must take. No one's asking you to stay," he said, rising to his feet. "The door," he said, pointing to it. "It beckons you."

"You know what I said about distractions," he told him seriously, ignoring Draco's determined attempts to make him leave.

"She isn't a distraction."

"She seems to be."

"Well, she's not!" he shouted, suddenly raising his voice. Lucius's gray eyes narrowed into slate-like chips of ice. "She's not a distraction. Leave her alone," he said through clenched teeth, his hands curling into tight fists. "Leave her alone, Mother."

His frosty eyes contracted at him, a scowl fixed on the sharp features of his face.

Draco sighed.

"Father," he corrected.

Lucius went on, his face fierce. "You must end things, Draco. If you really care for her, you'll end things while it's still early. Don't drag her into this. Gryffindors are curious, and they pry."

"I am not going to 'drag' her into this," he argued. "And, who are you all of a sudden? Are you going to be sending me death threats soon, too? I'm doing my part. I'm taking those lessons with Snape. I'm learning. Don't worry about her. She's as far away from our situation as possible. She doesn't have a clue—"

Lucius gave out a loud snort.

"I don't believe you, Draco." Draco could suddenly hear his mother's protectiveness and maternal tone kick in. "She's Head Girl, doesn't that send off alarms and bells inside your mind? If it doesn't, then it should. She suspects you, I can feel it. You've got to push her away – at least have some distance, for your own sake."

It was now very obvious to Draco that she could never be the Lucius he knew, though she herself was also cold, but he saw a shard of concern pierce through the cruel and bastard bravado she did her absolute best to front – and was so bloody good at it that even he was convinced most of the time, even with the knowledge of their clandestine affairs. He knew that it was only to him that she would ever let the slightest piece of herself show through her new identity. She had always been careful, but he had somehow always piqued her temper when he directed his defiance towards her.

There was a vast difference. Lucius would have the tip of his wand digging painfully into the flesh of his throat by now if it was really him. He would have already spit in his face like the snake that he was and punished him for associating with the likes of a Mudblood, far more than the necessary amount. Draco even guessed his body would have been cut apart by now, maybe shipped out to the four corners of the world and buried, never to be found. His father had been vicious, sly, and too morbid for his own good. For anyone's good, really.

Just then, something flickered inside the almost identical eyes staring back at him. Realization budded inside them as he stood; clear shock blossoming inside them like a hoary morning glory, his silver brows furrowed with accusation and discovery.

"Good _heavens_, Draco," he suddenly said in a tight voice that he positively knew his father himself could never muster enough of himself to sound. Maybe if someone had castrated him, but then again, who would be sick enough to even get within two inches of a Death Eater's special place, let alone if that man was Lucius Malfoy? Even his mother had lost her interest in that sort of pleasure after she had given birth. Even the pain of childbirth (she had demanded to go without numbing or soothing spells – tough girl, even beats out that Xena girl that Goyle fancies), she had said, wasn't as bad as the revulsion she held for his father. It was terribly sad, but very, _very_ understandable.

But the high pitch, authoritative though still a bit feminine in an ice queen sort of way, was his mother's expertise – undoubtedly.

"She's Potter's girl, isn't she?"

"She is _not_ his 'girl'," he snarled. He resisted the impulse to suddenly run over to his bed, grab one of his silk pillows and rip it apart until its expensive innards were all over the place. The outlet to his socket of pent-up anger; the snow to his temporary ice palace. He had been hoping his mother wouldn't catch on, that she wouldn't recognize her face from all of those issues of the hokey, stupid GossipWitch or Hearsay Hounds magazines. Even though her mother did not read such trash, she did read the Daily Prophet, and he was certain even Hermione had gotten her share of pictures on the front page more than she would have liked to.

(But he most despised the rumors about her and Potter. Married in the secret palace inside the wizarding community of Tahiti? Honestly! It wasn't even believable! Did they really have such boring lives that they had gotten out of touch with _realistic _lies?)

"This is worse than I thought," he said. "She's associated with him, is she not?" Draco remained silent, gritting his teeth. He hated it when his mother found out things like this. She was just so deathly stubborn and liked to pry into things too much. "Draco…"

"I know," he snapped, already knowing what she was to tell him. "I know."

"You're putting yourself, her, and our entire plan in danger," he told him, as if he didn't already know. "We haven't worked our way this far to have some girl ruin it," he sharply said, and if daggers had been coming out of his mouth rather than words, he would have been pinned up against the wall by now, stabbed dead with a river of blood cascading from his body like a crimson waterfall.

Draco could already imagine it.

He shuddered.

It was like a bad Muggle movie.

"She won't, Mother. She won't," he firmly said.

"You don't know that. Do you really want to play the part of a fool, son? Because if you do, then let this fling of yours slide a little longer. She is going to _expose_ you, Draco. She is a Gryffindor; it is in her nature. She is going to expose you, me, Severus. This is far too dangerous. What are you _thinking_? Are you purposely trying to get us caught?"

"You-you don't know her," he retaliated frostily, angered by his mother's ranting lectures. She was speaking to him as if he hadn't any sense at all, as if he wasn't already aware that his mere attachment to her was already too dangerous. "So don't act as if you do!"

"I know enough," he quipped. "I'm happy for you, my son, but this has got to end. I've seen you with girls before—"

"This is different!" he suddenly yelled, in an act of complete impulse. "This is _different_! And stop acting as if I don't have a speck of brains left!

"Do you? _Do_ you have a speck of brains left? Then why don't you try using it?"

Draco was breathing hard, trying to keep himself from shouting any more at her. He kept telling himself, redundantly, that he was not his father. The man standing before him right now wasn't even his father. But Draco would never lose his temper to a woman. He would never intentionally hurt a woman – with violence or words. He was _not_ Lucius Malfoy.

"I have done my part," he said coldly. "I am trying my best. But this I will handle on my own. You have no say in it, and neither does anyone else."

Surprisingly, the man standing before him did not scold any more.

"Be wise," he simply said, a clipping edge to his sharp voice. "You will be out of school in a matter of months, and when we have finally succeeded with our plan, you will then be allowed to freely spend your affections on any individual you like." His mercury eyes flickered. "Pure-blood or not."

Draco let out a tight sigh, looking away with a glower seeming to be permanently embedded into his face. "You tell Snape to stay out of my business," he spat angrily.

Lucius smirked. "Why don't you tell him yourself?"

Draco's eyes instantly flickered up to his gaze, clenching his fists at his side.

"He is only doing his job," his father drawled lazily. "He is simply looking after you. That is his orders."

"To invade every single ounce of my privacy?" Draco nearly yelled in all his aggravation and rage. "Believe it or not, I have a life outside our secret of sabotaging the Dark—"

"Draco!" Lucius boomed, his stoic face turning fierce. "You will respect your professor — we are only so fortunate he has agreed to help us! And you will _not_ show your defiance to me or him or the Headmaster while you are still in this castle, do you understand?" Draco nodded, still breathing heavily. He did not trust himself to speak just yet. "You will not speak to me in such a tone, my son," he ordered. "And you are forbidden to speak about our matters to anyone except Albus and Severus. You _will_ end things with Miss Granger, and you will do it soon. It is only for the best. Maybe you shall see her again after we have fulfilled our procedure, but for the moment she is only a distraction to you and your mind. We cannot have that. We cannot afford any mistakes – one simple, overseen error will cost us our lives. Will you remember all of this, Draco?"

There was a tense silence as Draco was trying his hardest not to fully reveal the fiery and vicious flame of his budding and sadistically brewing temper. His eyes were locked onto the identical pair boring into his, perceiving just how serious his mother was about this ordeal.

But while he was angry out of his wits and cursing his mother's damned timing along with everything else that seemed to be very keen on crushing him underneath unfortunate luck's sodding heel, he couldn't help but think very redundantly: '_This isn't fair'._ Because it wasn't, it just wasn't. Here he was, standing, frozen with anger, listening to his mother who had been magicked to look uncannily and exactly like his father to trick everyone (the acting was all her, no potion needed), scolding him about distractions and commanding him to end his relationship with his girlfriend because she was a Gryffindor and Harry bloody Potter's best sodding friend. He really did wish he could rip Hero Boy's head off right about now, with every twitching fiber and nerve roaring inside his pure-blood body.

Why did Potter have to choose to be friends with Hermione Granger, out of all the people in this blasted castle? Why did The Boy Who Lived To Ruin Draco Malfoy's Life just have to be very closely associated to the girl he would end up falling madly in love with and end up _truly_ ruining his _life_?

He was seething inside. One chance at happiness and bliss, and BAM! All gone within a painstakingly short second because he had meddlesome people breathing down his neck while sticking white-hot pokers up his arse to break things off with the woman that was most likely the best thing that had ever happened to him. He was now convinced that he had the best luck in the world. The best luck, really.

In fact, it was actually rather funny. A few months ago, he would have been glad — hell, ecstatic for an excuse to rid his murky life of maddening Hermione Granger, what with her sweet lips that were always snapping at him about damn morals and her charming, button nose that was always buried inside a mother encyclopedia-sized book that he had once been very tempted to have clamp down on her face with a single, wicked swish of his wand. But now… he couldn't imagine his life without her. It was just impossible. And, it was ridiculous, considering that they had actually only been together for about two months or so now, and could someone really affect a person so immensely after that short a time, in reality? He was a Malfoy! Malfoys never swayed on anything without the help of dark spells and promises of more power or outrageous amounts of wealth. It was nearly impossible. But, then again, he had thought falling for her was a major, kick-in-the-gut, you-have-my-permission-to-kill-me-if-it-happens impossibility, too, so who was he to talk about the nature of impossibilities?

Six years and three-quarters of his life he had so far wasted in this place. Six years and thirteen-seventeenths he had wasted fooling around with beautiful, futile girls at the Malfoy Balls. And all this time, all of those numbers and fractions and ratios in his life never meant anything except that he was (in Goyle's words, who just happened to disloyally watch American Muggle TV shows over the summer and enjoy it, hence the scarring of its odd and strange words inside his somewhat nonexistence vocabulary – an extraordinary feat) "pimpin'." But now it only angered him and tipped him off the edge of the cliff. He had wasted all of that time – time he could have spent with the most beautiful, most clever, most goodhearted, most worthy and most annoying girl he would ever meet in his whole miserable, pathetic, Death Eater-infested life.

As trite as it could ever be, his life had meant a big fat nothing until he had realized just how fast she could disease him with her Goddess-like smile and twinkling eyes that could shine brighter than a catastrophic supernova. Because, damn it, he was in love. He was finally in love. And as well as it being his first, it was also probably going to be the last time he was going to feel all of those ridiculously giddy and somewhat disturbing sensations.

"Yes." He then paused for a short second. "Father."

But did he really _want_ to remember all of this? No. Hearing his father-who-was-actually-his-mother-in-disguise lecture him and pound some logical sense into his mind left a painful stinging inside his heart. How was he going to be able to look at Hermione the same way, without feeling that growing dread clustering up inside his stomach, and that crumbling of his heart? How was he going to kiss her the same way when, really, all he would be thinking about is how he wouldn't ever be kissing her again in the near future – and therefore, absentmindedly send her into a state of suffocation because of his possessiveness? How was he going to be able to see her across the Great Hall with her sodding friends and resist the urge to drag her into a broom closet and just hold her – _really_ hold her – and scold her about the lack of time they had with each other, and command her to spend all of her free time with him?

He needed more time. By Merlin, he needed more time.

In the silence that he was thinking, the features of Lucius's face softened, something that Draco had thought to be impossible before his mother had inhabited his father's body.

Narcissa Malfoy, watching the tendons in her handsome son's face tighten with such pain and thought, felt guilt and shameless pride. But with that pride descended ache. She was glad and proud of him that he let himself finally feel something for a girl, a genuine care, too, from the look on his face, but felt guilty that the one chance that her son had taken to become humanly warm was to be taken away from him. Had they been in another circumstance, battling another force, she would have done everything in her power to let her son keep the one girl he seemed to care very deeply for. But fate, as luck would have it, was not so simple, nor was it so kind.

His loss would either make him a better man or one that was worse. She tried to keep light in this situation by thinking that he would certainly become the former.

"I'm sorry, Draco," he said gently, and as Draco looked up, his mother's compassion and sympathy had shown through, even though Lucius's seemed to have a bit of trouble trying to show it. "I truly am."

He tried to burst that bubble of bitterness inside him, reminding himself that his mother was not to blame for this whole ordeal. It was all the Dark Lord's fault – him and his father's. And he was going to make sure they were going to rot in hell for it.

Draco said nothing. In the depth of his thoughts, he didn't think he could say anything to his mother right now. He just wanted this to be over. He just wanted to see Hermione.

He needed something to calm him down, to soothe his frazzled nerves, and he knew that at least the sight of her would get him halfway there. To his happy place. Funny that he actually had a happy place.

Lucius cleared his throat, straightening up. "I will be keeping in touch with you. Both you and Severus will be my messengers to the Headmaster. Always remember to be cautious. We can trust no one out of our confidentiality. I advise you to be wary of your relationship with Miss Granger. End things with her, Draco. As soon as possible. It is required of you."

He nodded.

Senior Malfoy then slid his wand out of his cane, and with a flutter of words and a swish of his wand, the series of spells that he had put up in the beginning to protect their conversation were disbarred.

"Very well, then. I shall be seeing you soon. Keep up with your studies. Don't disappoint me." Back to her act, his lip curled in the air of the threat, eyes shining like icicles.

And then, with a breeze of cold air suddenly masking the room, he left. His door promptly shut behind him.

Draco collapsed on the side of his bed, his head in his hands. He let out a heavy, steadying sigh, and never in a million years could he deny the complex agony of his situation.

"Oh, God," he groaned.

oooo

Hermione bolted up, gasping for air and her heart thrashing about in her chest. She struggled to breathe and calm herself as she looked around the familiar settings of her plush room, feeling extremely dizzy. Her blood was pounding viciously inside her head, and she could feel herself soaked in cold sweat, damp tendrils sticking to her forehead and her neck moist from perspiration. She looked down, noticing the chill that surrounded her and the trembling of her dainty fingers.

"Oh Merlin," she said, panting for air as she raised her hand to her chest, her heart hammering underneath her sensitive palm. She felt as if her heart was going to shoot out of her chest like a cannonball if it didn't slow down soon. "It's just a dream," she reassured herself, her eyes shut tight as she tried to suppress the sobs of worry and fright that stung her lungs. "It was just a dream. A dream. Draco's fine."

Relief passed through her like wave at her realization, but she still couldn't help but worry frantically and distressfully at their current circumstance. How in the world had she been able to fall asleep? She had been so frightened, so worried, so concerned and scared straight out of her wits. She just couldn't understand how she could have somehow nodded off in such a stressful and nerve-racking moment.

She hadn't been asleep long. A mere fifteen minutes as she calculated, looking at the two hands of her clock. Still having quite some difficulty getting her breaths in and out of her constricting lungs, she dug her head into her hands, distraught.

"What is happening to me?" she asked herself, trying to soothe all of her aching and screaming thoughts protesting inside her head. "Draco's fine. His father would never hurt him. Not at Hogwarts. Never here."

But though her words were only sincere and pure of intention, it did not bring her much comfort or relief. She needed to see him. She needed to see him to feel as if she could finally breathe again. The aching and cancerous worry she housed inside of her petite body could easily overtake her, and now, considering that Lucius Malfoy had walked in on them during such an intimate and tender time, it was even worse. It was driving her completely mad.

Hermione looked around, her eyes flickering fretfully. She suddenly rose to her feet and grabbed her jumper from her dresser, hastily putting it on and zipping it up. She had so much pent-up nervous energy thrumming inside her veins that she needed to get out of her room – to go outside, the Astronomy Tower, anywhere. She just needed to think. But first she needed to check on Draco. She had a feeling that his father hadn't left just yet.

She remembered that she had been going to go out of her room to check on him before she had fallen asleep. But after slowly turning the knob, she had suddenly changed her mind and closed it again, biting her lip and closing her eyes. Draco had told her to stay in her room. He was looking out for her. If she were to cross out into open territory, she might just make it all worse. For the both of them.

And, yes, she had always been a fairly stubborn one but she had a feeling she should hide away her pride for the time being and listen to Draco's orders. She did not want to risk anything that would hurt the situation even more – or, worse. Him.

With shaky hands, she turned the knob, hearing the locks click and slowly turn. The resonance of the clicks and hums from inside her walls and doors astounded her before they came to a sudden stop, filling her room with silence and the only music of her tight, unsteady breaths. She pushed forwards a bit as the door creaked open.

A dead stillness met her as she suddenly froze, her brown eyes big and wide. She instantly and silently pressed the door almost till it was closed, merely peering through the crack. Her eyes were eerily concentrated on the man crossing the room, his silver ponytail oddly glowing in the scattered light. She could hear the somewhat muffled thumps of her frightened heart. He looked grim, serious. Was that a look a murderer would have on his face after a kill? Did his expression give out any hint that he had hurt Draco in any way?

_Could_ his face give out any expression besides sneering and smirking?

He stepped out of the common room, the portrait door shutting quietly behind him, and Hermione let out the deep breath that had been sweltering painfully inside of her lungs. She opened the door wide, walking very fast across the common room, not even bothering to close the door to her room. She stood in front of his door. His own private portrait was mumbling to herself not so quietly about Lucius Malfoy, and she was just about to ask her if she had any idea if Lucius had hurt Draco, but remembered that the portraits could not sense anything inside of their rooms. _'Useless idea'_, she thought bitterly. But by "hurt" she had meant in the specific use of physical, violent measures, not dark spells.

She was confident in her belief that he had not used any dark magic because of the new alarms set around the Heads rooms. Hermione thought it was genius and easily convenient for a time like this (she had a feeling they had Senior Malfoy in mind when they thought up the new security measure). If it caught a single hint of dark magic or a forbidden curse, sirens would go off in the commons and in the offices, hallways, et cetera. So if Lucius had, in fact, hurt Draco with his wicked ways, she would certainly know. Along with the professors, students, and everyone else in Hogwarts who was not deaf and blind to the crimson danger signals flashing like neon disco lights on a Friday night all over the castle.

And so she had nothing to worry about, right?

Right?

Her forehead was leaning against the hardwood of his door, cool and relieving to what seemed to be the foreboding headache forming inside her skull. The Malfoy family and history was such a heavy, complex load to take on all by oneself. Could she help it that Lucius Malfoy, the ghoulish, horrible sadist, was her boyfriend's father?

She was just about to knock, ungluing her forehead from his door and making a fist, when the door suddenly gave out from in front of her while she was still fairly leaning on it. Giving out an almost ultrasonic squeal, she fell forwards, only to be saved by a pair of familiarly warm and strong arms.

Her eyes met a pair of gray and she released a deep outtake of air. Shivers still tingling up her spine, she shifted herself against him, firming their embrace. She dug her face into the valley of his shoulder and neck, inhaling his rich musk, praising God that he was still healthy and alive and not bleeding half to death on the floor. But as she closed her eyes and felt him hold her closely, his warmth pleasantly and entirely enveloping her, she felt ominous pressure stacking up behind her eyes. Biting her lip, she willed for the tears to stop before they could start.

"What happened?" she managed to ask him in a broken whisper.

"I opened the door," he bluntly answered.

"No, not that," she said, shaking her head, but taking it as a good sign that he had not yet lost his sense of humor even in his apparent lack of knowledge of when to kid around. "Oh, Draco," she sighed, feeling the hot tears well up. "I'm so glad you're all right." She tried her best to conceal the fact that she was now freely crying, silently sobbing into his shirt, grasping her fingers against his back to make sure that he was truly here and was not some hallucination or illusion that her mind had just materialized out of her troubling thoughts. She then pulled back, her tears blurring her vision but she could still distinctly make out the concerned silver orbs of his eyes. "You are all right, aren't you?" she asked him. "He didn't do anything to you?"

"No," he answered, "no, he didn't. But why… why are you crying?" he asked softly, his brows furrowing with apprehension. He tightened his hold on her. "Were you in the common room when my father went out? What did he say to you? I _told_ you to stay inside your—"

"I was in my room," she interrupted him. "I was. I came to you right after he stepped out of the portrait hole. If it's the eavesdropping you're concerned about, I swear, I wasn't pressed up against your door because I was listening—" She was blushing, only now just realizing what it must have looked like.

"It's _you_ I'm concerned about," he snapped, startling Hermione. There was a clear question in her wide innocent brown eyes as she stared up at him, and grasping his mistake, he sighed, looking away for a brief second. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm just… Things didn't go so well with my father."

Hermione was just to ask why, but clamped her lips back together. She knew that it would only annoy him further – and who was she to pry and play detective about his relationship with his father, anyway? She was in no such place. His business was his business. If he wanted to tell her, if he felt that it was important for her to know, he would tell her. She knew he would.

"Oh," was all she could muster.

He then let go of her and framed her face with his hands, gently brushing his thumbs across her cheeks, wiping away her tears. Seeing her cry made his throat dry up and coarsen and rough up like desert sand. He didn't like it; he didn't like to see her hurt, or upset, or sad. He cursed at the fact that that was going to make it that much harder when he was to do what was "required" of him in the future.

Even just the thought of it made the muscles inside his chest tighten up. Even his stomach felt as if it was going through the grater.

"I apologize," he told her with steady eyes, "for what happened. He just walked in on us, I—" It was really his mother's fault (his actual father's for the main part), but they were still blood-related, and so he felt the obligation to apologize. That, and he did feel rotten about this whole debacle. It was utmost humiliating and frightening for the both of them.

"Oh, it's not your fault," she breathed, burrowing her face into his chest. "But, Draco, what are we going to do? Your father — what did he say? I know he couldn't have approved us. What are we going to do?"

"I don't know," he replied, truthfully. "I don't know, Hermione. But we're going to figure something out, all right? After all, we are the Heads. If we can recruit and shape a newly-established, clumsy newspaper staff, certainly this can't be so hard?" he joked, trying to add some humor to lighten the mood. Unfortunately, when he himself was just as distraught and troubled and mussed with menacing matters as his girlfriend, his wit sunk to its all-time low. He frowned in the sad and dismal attempt to make her smile. Grim humor, they called it. And obviously he wasn't so good at it.

"Don't worry," he told her, trying to sound as certain as possible. "I won't let him hurt you." It was only a promise, but it was the best he could do. He was at a loss at what he could say to comfort and soothe her. He had never been faced with the dilemma that was a crying, distressed girl before, much less one that he cared so deeply for. Sending her a sly, seductive wink and smirk, he guessed, wouldn't help in this matter as it had in the past. But that had been with a variety of situations… and this one was certainly a far cry from being even being nearly the same. He wasn't stupid.

He felt her sharp breath of air caress the side of his neck.

"I need to think," she unexpectedly said, pulling away. "I need some time to think."

"Wh-what?" he stammered, perplexed. Though he knew exactly what she was talking about, he was clever enough to catch the negative hint in her voice. How could he not? She had been in the clear hearing direction of his ear.

"I just need some air," she said, suddenly feeling as if the room was very rapidly shrinking in its size. It also felt as if there was some giant vacuum sucking out all the breathable air from the room. "Did it suddenly get hot in here?" she asked him, feeling frantic. She was having one of her panic attacks. Her breaths started to get fast and short, clipped with terror. Her sudden change in mood and the realization of what was happening to her right now made Draco's eyes widen with alarm.

"Are you all right?" he asked her warily.

She quickly untangled herself from him. "I'll see you later. I need some air. Fresh air. I need to go to the Astronomy Tower." She was running her hand through her hair rapidly. Her face looked frenetic.

"I'll go with you," he blurted out.

"No," she said, backing away. "I need to go alone. I just need to think."

"Hermione—"

"I'm sorry, Draco. I'll come back, I promise. I just need to be alone for a little while." And even with the continuous shouting of her name, she rushed out of the portrait hole as if she was running for her life. Draco did not dare go after her – this made it apparent that he, as well, needed some time alone.

Falling back on his silk-clothed bed, he let his head loll back and took the deepest sigh he could bring himself to take. He closed his eyes, wondering just how in the world things could have ended up this way.

oooo

When Hermione reached the Astronomy Tower, she felt her guilt catch up with her, along with the ache in her side and the strain of her lungs. She knew she shouldn't have left Draco the way she had, running as if she was an escaped convict from Azkaban, but it wasn't as if he had exactly gone after her. She knew that they both had to have time to think things over, to think everything over. Lucius Malfoy's interruption of their young love bliss had brought them crashing back into reality, whether they had wanted it to or not.

Looking up above Hogwarts's terrain, watching the sun as it slowly set in its pool of shimmering, fiery streaks and breathing in some fresh, spring air made the load upon her heart slightly give. But it did not make the matters better, nor made it seem a bit less threatening. She had been delaying her confrontation with the unresolved issues, or rather, consequences of pursuing a relationship with Draco Malfoy. Rich pure-bloods like him always came with catches, with strings attached, and she'd been a fool to think that she could ignore them and that they would never find her. Well, she was wrong. And it came to bite her back in the arse – yes, a whole, big, _painful_ chomp.

She didn't know what to do. What were they going to do? She knew Lucius had asked Draco to do something. She had seen it in his eyes. He was not such a good liar when he was evidently just as emotionally screwed as she was.

Her number one guess was that Senior Malfoy had asked Draco to break up with her. But that was _if_ he was capable of asking, and if not, then she thought up: threatened, ordered, and a number of other things that were just as aggressive in the verbal world and also just as mean. If he hadn't threatened him to break things off with her, then he had probably told his son to kill her because then the hassles of breaking up would be wiped clean, just like that. She hoped and prayed that neither would be the case. She really did value their relationship as she did her life. Both were just too important to her.

'_This isn't fair,'_ she mentally groaned, her face inside her palms and feeling the hint of oncoming tears, once again. _'This just isn't fair. The one chance I have at love, the one chance at my Happily sodding Ever After – gone! Gone, just because of some chauvinistic bastard! Why can't I just get a break from the ongoing drama? This is just like an ongoing, horrid soap opera! And I can't believe I'm _living_ it!_'

Shamelessly, she began to cry. She cried for herself, for Draco, for their it-was-good-while-it-lasted, lovely liaison. She cried for her friends, who would undoubtedly hate her when they found out, which she was sure they would, sooner than later. She cried for her heart, her poor, poor heart, that had been stomped on, crushed, then stitched back up and nursed back to health only to get shot down again like a dying dog in pain. She wished that someone could just kill her right now to put her out of her misery. She could not handle the pain, or the fact that she was crying now as if she had just lost everything.

She thought she really would lose everything, at least on some levels. If Draco did decide to follow his father's cruel orders and break up with her, she would lose her motivation for a number of things (though, in her pride, she tried not to believe it). She would lose interest and scorn love, all the while cursing everyone else who was in their "happy place" because of it. Harry and Ron would find out and they would scold her, tell her their I-told-you-sos, ask her why she betrayed them… and then set their friendship on fire to watch it burn to the ground. Ginny would try to set her up with middle-aged men and, as a result of her desolation and despair, she would end up growing old with a thousand cats and live inside of an excessively large but homey shoe. With a monumental library.

She didn't want to lose Draco, but it wasn't as if she had a choice. It was Draco's choice. Though, as she thought more about it, maybe Draco didn't have a choice.

'_That's nonsense,'_ she thought, attempting to reassure herself, sniffling. _'Of course he has a choice. He always has a choice.'_ She tried her best to convince herself of this, although it seemed even harder in this complex, frustrating knot of things.

The heaving sobs were finally released from her body as she slowly tried to compose herself. She was very familiar with the saying that crying would do no good, but it wouldn't do anyone any harm, either. She just couldn't help but feel as if her life and the world around her was spiraling out of control and straight out of her reach. As if her path had suddenly grown teeth and she was sitting smack dab in the process of getting torn apart and swallowed down a tube of acidic saliva and digestive juices. It had been completely fine, absolutely, completely fine. She and Draco had just made up, smoothed out the little crease in their quilt. After all, they had been snogging.

Maybe it was because she had known this was going to happen. That good, fantastic things couldn't happen to her unless it descended with a hidden price – one that would drag her further and further down…. She had had a feeling, that dark, looming feeling as if you couldn't turn your back for one second because then that _thing_, that monster, would pounce at you from behind. But being cautious made her nervous and worry to the extent that she could think of nothing else, so she had tried to ignore it. It was in her nature to be a little paranoid, and she had just passed it along as something linked to her paranoia. It made sense.

She thought she could do just fine without having to actually listen to the voice inside her head that was always spewing with cynical and foreboding witticisms and warnings that seldom did her any good. Apparently, in this case, she was wrong. So wrong that it served her like a big, hard slap in the face.

But even if she had listened, had worried, had fretted and was wasted down into a hump of human, distressed flesh, what good could that have possibly done? It would have literally drained out any possibility of fun or spontaneity in her life. Not to mention the fact she might've scared away Draco by now, too. And so, considering all of the sides of this situation, it made her feel slightly better to see that there could have been no other way. That this was really how it was intended. Caught red-handed, in flagrante by her boyfriend's Death Eater father. She tried not to think of the troubling pinches in her heart that hinted to her she may not live long enough to go to her own graduation.

With the exception of a few sniffles every now and then, she was contained as she continued to look out. The atmosphere had certainly changed in her pity party, and it struck her as rather funny that it had changed to one that suited her mood. The sun was in its very last stages of disappearing for the night, and the skies had lost its shimmering coat of fire and flame. It appeared to her like a brewing, stirring mix of violet, gray, and dark azure. She wondered if this change before her was trying to imply something important to her.

But as she shifted slightly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, there was a flash of movement from the corner of her eye. It was slightly dark in the area of the Astronomy Tower she was in, the last rays of the setting sun slowly losing its piercing and brilliant light. The weak flames in the torches proved to be little help as she could see the shadows outgrowing their corners.

"Draco?" she called out. Her eyes widened as a figure stepped out from near one of the coats of knight armors. Emerald eyes stared back at her, flickering dimly – she did not know whether the tricks of light did this, or merely just his emotions. Either way, his pale face looked grim and forecasted something that churned the revolving dread inside her stomach.

His voice rumbled deep with what seemed like shock and tense control, all meshed into one.

"It's Harry."

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**A/N:** Basketcase has reached its 1000 review mark! THANK YOU TO ALL OF MY REVIEWERS, PAST AND PRESENT!

**2nd A/N:** For those of you who have read the 6th book, you all know who goes with whom. And what Draco does that I never expected him to do. I, however, have not read it though some magazine articles clearly gave it away I.E. TIME (I probably won't read it, either. I don't think I can stand the pain of seeing two people who are clearly meant together be torn apart). I am sad for our couple – but the Draco/Hermione ship shall still sail on!


	33. Terrible Storm

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: Simple and easy: I don't own Harry Potter. And that is that.

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It brings me pain to say this, but the updates after this are might take awhile longer. I really am very sorry. But I thank you all who reviewed and waited patiently for the installments. :) It warms my heart to read each one of your reviews and I do realize that this story couldn't be anywhere near what is now without your help. Thanks a million times over.

**Fluff warning! **For this chapter and the next two (or one and a half). Some of you folks have been telling me that Draco's getting quite OOC and while I never planned to have many fluffy parts in the first place (and I don't think there are going to be many in Basketcase), fluff is always needed to escalate one up before the big fall. So, just be prepared. I like to think that a Draco in Love is always OOC (on some levels), but I do try my best.

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**Terrible Storm**

"_**This is unparalleled even to the words of poets."**_

A vast part of Hermione knew that this was going to be the day Harry James Potter was going to find out about her and Draco. But the other part, the part that wailed in protest and horror, wished it didn't have to be this way. But she figured – amazing this was in all of her shock and the seizure-like beating of her heart – that this was as good a time as ever, as terrible and as inconvenient the timing was. But, really, it wasn't as if she had a choice. Fool that she was, she had expected it to be Draco who had come to fetch her to maybe talk, and so his name had instantly come out of her mouth. Damned bad luck revealed to her that it wasn't – it was, maybe, the complete opposite of him. Hermione hated the element of irony and surprise together. It was like a painful, painful punch in the gut. With an iron-plated fist.

And so Harry was going to know. His suspicions would be proved to be horribly true. If she was lucky, they'd still be talking by end of this surprise encounter. And if she was lucky, Harry would still be her friend. She just hoped that he was in a good mood, though from the look on his face, it probably wouldn't have mattered much anyway.

Although it couldn't help the thorny predicament she had now gotten herself into, she wanted terribly to stick her foot into her mouth.

_Terribly_.

"H-Harry," she managed to stammer, feeling all of the blood and color drain from her face and traffic inside the tiny tubes leading to her brain. She could only hope it would somehow cause her to faint or her body to malfunction, that way she could face this a little later (she actually hoped for "a lot later"), when she had a better, smarter idea of what to say to maybe cushion the blow a bit. If that was even remotely possible.

The fact that she was feeling as if her lungs were trapped underneath a great hunk of bricks didn't help matters, either. She was trying her best to get her body to operate a bit faster – her brain to think faster, her mouth to end its lost cause in stammering incoherently like some hopeless, inarticulate loser, and her breathing to flow normally again. Her breaths had started to skip like a badly scratched Muggle record ever since he had literally stepped out of the dark, even after she had just calmed herself down from all of those tiring tears. If she didn't get those two delicate sacks of organ she once called lungs working again, there was a possibility she just may actually suffocate. But, then again, maybe that was a good thing.

"What are you doing here?" she asked nervously, starting to wring her hands and bite her lip. Two dead giveaways that she was as guilty as a coyote with bloodied jaws on trial.

He stepped forwards, little by little, until he was making his way to her. His face appeared to be almost inhumanly dour in her eyes, and she felt shame and trepidation creep all over her skin. She hadn't seen him look so serious since fifth year and she most certainly hadn't wanted to see him that way again. It had literally broken her heart into pieces, seeing her friend in such a dismal place.

There was a rustling as he shifted, planting his feet right beside hers, overlooking Hogwarts's territory. The sun was almost gone and the shadows that beset his face from the darkening environment hammered in a few nails inside her sore purple heart. She couldn't say that he looked furious, but it certainly looked as if he was very near to shooting steam out of his ears from anger. His lips were tightly pursed and his words came out rigged and sharp.

He let out a tight sigh. "We just arrived from Hogsmeade. I brought you something," he told her, Hermione's eyes flickering earnestly across his face. His voice was cold and rigid. He then reached inside the bag he was holding, taking out a tall box. He held the item between them, showing her. "Erasable-ink quills. I remembered you said you needed some a few days ago, and so I went to fetch you some when Ron was buying cones for him and Luna." He handed it to her, and she slowly took it, feeling so guilty that she felt as if she could put a gun to her head and shoot herself without another thought.

"How did you know I was here?" she asked weakly.

"I saw you making your way up here," Harry answered.

"Harry," she said, almost beseechingly as he very clearly avoided her eyes. "I-I wasn't—"

"So how long, Hermione?" he asked her, trying to sound like his normal self but coming off to her as a bit frigid. His words were clipped with annoyance and disappointment, as well as with the astonishment she could see swirling inside his green eyes. "It must have been pretty long if you're now obviously on a first-name basis."

Harry didn't mean to sound odious or nasty, or so mean. But he couldn't help it. That disgust flicking from his tongue, like venom from a snake, was from the toiling resentment of seeing how she had hid it from him and Ron without even the slightest consideration of their feelings about the matter, without a single thought of telling them the truth. And with Malfoy, out of all the sodding boys in their school! Or, "Draco," as she apparently preferred to tag him. Either way, the notion of just grasping the idea for what it was seemed revolting. It was too horrible to actually stomach.

How could Hermione go gallivanting off with him after all that he had done? Here he was, going through relentless, back-breaking training to fight Voldemort and she was sending flying kisses to the person who was more than intent on making his life a living hell ever since he stepped onto the school's grounds!

He could feel hatred bubbling inside him. He came up with a cemented, rock-hard conclusion that despicable Malfoy had been the one to drag her into this, to keep their so-called "relationship" a secret from them. It was the sort of crude, wicked thing he was known to pull. That Slytherin arse. He was going to _kill_ him.

And Hermione, the strongest girl that he knew – she actually _let_ him. She _let_ him do this to her. As much as the blame was on Draco Malfoy, Harry couldn't help but hate her a little too.

More than a little. More than enough.

"Harry—"

"Hermione," he said impatiently, looking at her with icy eyes. Harry had never been one for hostility, but he felt as if some part of him had just frozen over. "Just answer it."

For a moment she just looked at him, as if trying to decide how she could reply without causing much damage. There was hesitation in her voice. "A month or two," she sighed sadly. "But, Harry, it isn't what it seems, I swear."

"Then just what _is_ it?" he asked her, one cynical brow climbing up his forehead.

"It… it's…" she faltered, her expression pleading for at least a hint of understanding on his part. "I… I have feelings for him, Harry," she finally said, her frustration getting the best of her. Honesty was all she had now. There was no use in trying to sugarcoat everything when everything was already as ghastly as it was. "Strong feelings. And he has them for me, too—oh, Harry, please look at me," she said, as he turned his face away. "I hope you're not angry. I don't want you to be angry. It's completely innocent, I promise you—"

"Innocent, Hermione?" he suddenly spat, incredulous. "_Innocent_?"

She nodded, swallowing hard. It felt as if her throat was now a pincushion and sharp needles were now bulging out from every inch of her neck.

"With a _Slytherin_? How could you even say the word 'innocent' when you're indulging in a Slytherin prick's presence?" he nearly shouted, losing his temper. "And _Malfoy_? _Malfoy?_ Have you completely forgotten what he's done to us over the years? What he's done to _you_?"

"Harry, that isn't fair!" she cried, though there was an odd, stern tone that accompanied her shout of objection. She felt as if she had taken one bullet in the chest for every spiteful word he had thrown at her. "You can't hold your grudge on Malfoy over me, like it's my restraint string or my boundary tape, all right? You _can't_ hold the past against someone! And, yes, he was nothing less of a bastard our last six and a half years here, I completely understand that! I do! But what _you_ need to understand is that people can _change_! People _can _change, Harry! Even Malfoy!"

"Fair?" he scoffed. "Hermione, if you want to talk about things that aren't fair, we can talk about the fact that you didn't tell Ron and me a single word of you and Malfoy. You didn't even _try_." He purposely dragged out the last word, and Hermione couldn't deny the excruciating clinch that it had on her heart. "You-you _hid_ it from us, Hermione. How do you think that's supposed to make us feel?"

"I'm sorry. What else do you want me to say? I'm _sorry_."

"I've told you all this before, Hermione. All of the things that could be consequent to this. He's a wanker, everyone knows that. And he will continue to _be_ a wanker. Why can't you just see that? Are you _purposely_ trying not to see it? Because even a deaf and blind man would know instantly that Draco bloody Malfoy was a descendent of evil!"

"Were you _plugging_ your ears when I was speaking?" she asked him, upset. She was trying not to scream at him but her aggravation was surely escalating at a much faster pace than she would have liked. "Didn't you just hear what I was shouting about? Change, Harry! _Change_! He's _changed_! And he _isn't_ evil! He can be deathly annoying, yes, but he could never be evil! You're _completely_ misjudging him!"

"If anyone would know about judging, it'd be Malfoy. He could've _written_ the book on how to completely judge someone and then treat them like dirt!" he exclaimed. "And commenting from experience is _not_ judging someone. He's part of the Death Eater's support society, for Merlin's sake!"

"You can't know that!"

"How could you do this?" he asked her, shouting, his temper getting the best of him. "How could you do this to Ron and me? To _yourself_? I'm _toiling_ in my training, waiting for Voldemort's bloody arrival, and you're-you're here, batting your _eyelashes_ at Malfoy! How-how could you be so _stupid_? How could you be so _selfish_?"

Hermione's lungs were in binds. Hot, acidic tears were pouring down her cheeks. Her heart lay afloat in her chest, beaten and bruised. Her voice was full of pain and misery, her lips trembling. "Harry, you just don't understand."

And he didn't. She knew he didn't. But everything he had said… everything… it had swept past here with such a cutting effect, such a harsh brutality – because it was true. It was true. How could she _be_ so selfish But could one be so controlling over the human emotions intoxicating their actions and thoughts? _Couldn't_ she be stupid, just this once?

He was silent, looking down and taking a breath, and then looking back up at her. Her wide eyes were full woe and glossy from the sheen of tears.

His eyes were still as cold and hostile.

The words he had shouted at her unsurprisingly rang inside her ears, tormenting her. '_By Merlin, he really does hate him,'_ a small voice erupted from her thoughts. She had no idea what to do to make things seem better, but she knew what she had to do. And Harry just may walk away from her and never speak to her again as a result, but if they continued to shout at each other, they'd never get anything accomplished. Instead of understanding, they'd be about miles from that.

"I'm not going to do this, Harry," she said, trying to control the quaking of her voice, looking at him firmly. "I'm not going to waste my time shouting at you. I'm not going to try and make you understand if you don't want to. I already apologized to you, and you can choose to accept it, or you can choose not to. I'm sorry for what I did. But I am not going to stand here and scream at you. It would be completely useless."

There she was. Being logical.

There was a tense silence that misted all around them. Hermione was right about refusing to yell and screech at him like some out-of-control banshee – he didn't deserve it. No one did. Except maybe she did. But she had taken the blows, right? The hits? His heated words, intentionally hurtful or not. She had accepted them. What else was he expecting from her? What else could she do?

Her mind was drawing blanks while her eyes kept letting loose tears.

In all of her life, she had never known that Harry Potter could be so difficult. She felt almost completely hopeless on winning her friends over. Never mind that it had seemed like an impossible task in the very first place.

He looked away. "Hermione… I just don't want you to get hurt." If she looked close enough, she could see that he looked slightly pained by the way his eyes were faintly squinted and the way his features had softened but were still taut with emotion. She knew that he had meant it.

"Yeah, well, that's sort of worthless now, isn't it?" she sniffled, looking up with him with a slight glare. "I mean, Harry, look at it this way: I didn't tell you because I was afraid. I was afraid you would be angry, which, let's face it, you are. I was right. I made the decision, and you can damned well deny that it was educated, but it _was_. I took in all of the sides, I analyzed them, and I chose the one that was… best. Maybe not for you, but for me." Her brown eyes were steady on his. "I suppose I _was_ being… selfish. But everyone earns the chance, don't they? That one time in their life when they're allowed to be selfish?"

She sighed. "I _was_ being selfish. And for that, yes, I can accept that I will get hurt. I _will_ get hurt. But _you_ have to accept the fact that I'm in love with Draco… and he's in love with me."

She tried to sound absolutely certain of the last statement, because if she didn't act as if it was completely, entirely true, then Harry would eat her alive. She tried to sound as if she would single-handedly bet her life on it.

The look that slowly crept over Harry's face proved her attempt to be successful. He still looked disappointed in her and fairly angry, and that stung her more than anything else, but at least he was willing to compromise. He was letting a small beam of light shine through. She could only be thankful for that.

"Why are you letting him do this to you, Hermione?" he sighed, asking her almost so earnestly. She hated to say it, but Harry was acting as if she was talking about giving her life away to Draco or something equally… monumental. She couldn't even begin to think of how Ron would react. She guessed it would somehow involve spitting curses or even hurling some hexes. Very unpleasant.

"Do what?"

"I don't know, bewitch you, trick you," Harry said, throwing his hands up in the air. He forcefully gripped the balcony arm. "I just don't trust him. I don't think I ever will, with all the trickery he's pulled. And what about Lucius? What are you going to do about him? Your relationship can't be all sunshine and butterflies if you take in the fact that he's literally the heir of All Things Wicked. This… it just isn't wise, Hermione. I'm sorry. If it isn't difficult now, then it certainly will be."

A snort of laughter slipped from her lips. "Bewitch me? Harry, he didn't do anything. And I know that you don't trust him – not very many people do."

"Can you blame them?" he mumbled. "But do you?" he suddenly asked her, looking at her. "Do you trust him?"

"Yes," she replied honestly. "I do."

Harry sighed, turning back to the sight before them. "I sure do hope you know what you're doing, Hermione," he softly told her.

Hermione said nothing to his remark. Maybe it was because she herself wasn't really one hundred percent confident that she knew what she was doing, or maybe it was because that she was just so relieved and happy that the red-hot, rioting anger had vacated the Astronomy Tower. Shouting was not her favorite pastime. It wasn't even in the top ten.

"Are you angry?" she asked. Her voice sounded astoundingly tiny.

He looked at her, and she saw very clearly what his answer was. She felt her heart sag a little lower. She couldn't blame him. Even she had hated herself when those… _things_ started happening. It had been unexpected as it was unwelcome on so many levels.

But Harry had changed, at least, somewhat. Sixth year had been difficult for him, and so had fifth year. He had been so angry, so depressed, so hateful towards everyone. But then he had managed to contain his feelings, to smooth them out. Dumbledore had put all of them in a pensieve to prevent any destructive thoughts and actions from budding inside of him.

"But I suppose it's like you said – useless. I can only look out for you. I can't tell you what to do, because even if I did, you wouldn't listen to me, any way. But… the year's ending, and eventually it will, too."

That hit Hermione harder than she could've ever imagined it to, and she didn't even know why. She guessed it showed on her face, as if she had just realized it and could not stomach her realization like a bad supper, because Harry said more.

"Prepare for a brutal winter," he simply said. "And if Ron—"

"Can we please just keep it from him, for now?" she immediately asked him, his last remark was still fresh on her mind. Suddenly her stomach felt very queasy. "I'm going to tell him, I will. But not now. I can't. I don't want him to do anything foolish and then give the professors cause to ban him from our graduation ceremony, as well as our other activities for the end of the year. It wouldn't do any good, Harry," she pleaded. "Please."

He looked skeptical, highly doubtful of what she was asking him. He was frowning. "I don't know, Hermione. Ron deserves to know. It would be wrong not to tell him, not to mention he'd be furious if—"

"Harry, I'm not asking you to lie. I'm just asking you not to say anything to him. I will tell him in due time, I promise. I just can't juggle that along with everything else – all I need is more time." She sighed. "You know, to prevent the massacre."

He crinkled his brow. "So you're doing this to protect Malfoy?"

"I'm doing this to protect everyone," she corrected him. "What? You don't think Ronald wouldn't hesitate to bite off my head as well?"

"It's not that. I'm just trying to tell you that you shouldn't underestimate Ron. He could very easily figure out what's going on."

And, despite herself, Hermione laughed, a very rare and astounding thing, considering the current events of that night. The last thing she had ever expected to do that night – after all that had happened – was to laugh. At least, laugh without it turning into a series of heaving sobs. Lucius Malfoy had robbed out all of the laughing capability inside of her lungs, or so she had thought.

No. He had simply just scared the bejeezus out of her.

Harry also managed to crack a smile. It did seem a bit forced, but Hermione uttered nothing. She could not object to the reality that he was trying.

"But you're sure about this, Hermione? You're absolutely, positively sure? Because I could just tell him that it's over for you and it wouldn't bother me a bit. I mean, Hermione, with all due respect, Malfoy's known to pull things like this. Horribly, terribly wicked things. You're not skeptical, not even the least bit doubtful?"

"Of what?"

"Of your… relationship. With him."

She smiled nervously but genuinely. "Sometimes you've got to endure pain and Lucius Malfoy to see the light in something as complicated as our relationship. And if he's willing, then why shouldn't I be? It's harder for him than it is for me." Her smile became sly. "And if he did have something up his sleeve, I would've figured it out by now, believe me."

Harry sighed again (he seemed to be doing that a lot), before Hermione wrapped her arms around him for a friendly, warm embrace. He awkwardly but quickly succumbed to it.

"Thanks, Harry," she said, eternally grateful to her friend for not being as hardheaded as herself. Goodness knows how she would've handled herself were she in Harry's place. It would have been an all out war.

"You do understand that I'm going to kill him if he hurts you?" he asked her, though it was anything but a question, nor one that needed her approval.

She grinned against his shoulder. "Perfectly."

oooo

Returning to the common room seemed like a thousand-mile journey to her. Harry had offered to walk her there, but she politely declined, knowing that she still needed a bit of time to herself to think.

What Harry had told her opened up a series of unneeded monstrosities her way. Actually, her and Draco's way. But she wasn't certain if he hadn't realized it in the past, so maybe she truly was alone on this one. Why was it that she seemed to be the last person to realize these things? Even Harry had realized before she had, and he hadn't even known about their relationship until an hour ago!

She supposed that being in love had somewhat stilted her awareness. It didn't surprise her. She hadn't been so terribly distracted in her life before Draco had dropped that massive anvil of confusion on her head and heart those months ago. She'd never been so utterly disoriented and she'd never even known that she could be so caught up in the enigma that was their (for her: former) Slytherin archenemy before, either. She thought that she had been diseased with madness. But maybe love was madness, and the medical geniuses and doctors just didn't know it yet. After all, doctors were busy. And when one was busy, it was almost impractical to fall in love.

But her mind was not able to stray for long. She was back, deeply ensnarled, although her thoughts were indeed redundant. She wondered what Draco would say to her when she returned. Would things be awkward and tense? She was leaning towards Yes, So Awkward You Could Cut The Tension With A Knife. Would he open up the topic of his father's business inside the school for discussion? Or was he forbidden to? Would he place a bit of space between them out of sudden awareness of their closeness? That would crush her. Sure, this was her first relationship, and undoubtedly serious one, but she wasn't that clueless in Relationship Central. She knew what that would mean. It was a clear-cut sign that they would be on the rocky path of a violent, volcanic break-up.

She knew it was inevitable. But she was dreading it; she loathed the topic of it alone. Just thinking about it left a nasty taste in her mouth. But what could she do? They had to talk about it – avoiding the subject and just masking it underneath layers of questions and pointless answers would make it all worse. It would unearth a larger monster. They had to speak about Draco's matters with Lucius, their relationship, their safety. It was the only way the pair of them would truly know where they were and what they wanted, or what was best.

Hermione's heart felt like bass on dry land, flopping aggressively, when she thought of the chances that what they wanted and what was best would be completely different.

When she arrived at the Heads portrait, she hesitated before saying the password. She finally said it in a deep outtake of air, which, luckily, the portrait understood. She stepped through the portrait hole and saw that their lavish Slythindor common room was empty. With the exception of the bright light that had flickered on when she had stepped in, there was not a single sign of movement. Feeling as if she had just swallowed a whole gallon of coarse, rough sand, she crossed the vast room and made her way to Draco's door.

She knocked. When no immediate answer came, her teeth found themselves clamping down into the flesh of her bottom lip and she had to fight the impulse to instead turn away and lock herself inside the comfort of her room until she was completely sure of herself. She didn't know why, but there came a bit of apprehension when it came to facing him now, no matter how much she did want to see him and make sure that he was indeed all right. She concluded that Harry's caveat words had wound up some menacing suggestions inside the twisted apparatus of her brain. And although she knew that Harry had only done that – maybe not even intentionally – out of pure love and concern, she really wished he hadn't. One never wanted to labor any more than was actually required.

When she positioned her fist to knock again, the door opened, and a small smile immediately swept over her face, just like an instant reflex. She refused the urge to throw her arms around him and just hold him, all the while telling him how happy she was that Harry was wrong about him being evil. ("Evil" really was too strong a word.) It was even better that he met her with a faint smile. It was not forced. It was genuine. He really did look as if he was truly happy to see her, even a bit on the side of relieved. This made her heart warm over, just like when her mum left the chicken out on the kitchen counter to defrost. And maybe in the microwave when they needed it to thaw faster. Although she felt that it was a rather odd analogy to compare her heart to defrosting poultry, it would work.

"You're back," he observed aloud.

"Yeah," she said softly, feeling excessive activity inside her chest. Just the sight of him made Harry's precautions detach and flutter down from her Velcro-like mind. She was grateful that he still occupied the major regions of her heart – were it someone or something else, it could and would very well cause a variety of problems. "I'm sorry I ran out before. I… I don't know what I was thinking."

True. She even highly doubted she was doing a remote form of thinking.

Draco nodded. He then stepped to the side and opened the door wider. "Come in. We need to talk." He did not do this as if he was an army general, but he wasn't exactly Mister Sunshine, either. He was merely serious. Hermione could accept that. His tone was very grave and hinted very clearly to her that their "business" was the tinkering fuel of his mind.

She courteously obliged him. She nodded, not saying a word but unconsciously showing to him her nervousness with her expression alone and the murky depths of her eyes. She stepped in, getting reacquainted with her surroundings as she heard him close the door behind her. She could see that he had not changed anything since the last time she had been here.

She relished the feeling of the gentle, bitter bite of a draft inside his room. She knew that he liked to keep his window open a bit, even on freezing winter nights – he had an attachment to the cold that endeared her. Her eyes wandered over to Guinevere and Archer's cage. She smiled softly as she saw that both were sleeping peacefully.

He brushed past her and sat down on the edge of his bed. He was tentatively looking at her and his smile was long gone now. "You can sit down, Granger. You're going to get tired just standing there like that."

Silently sighing, noting the opaque depths of his eyes, she took a seat next to him. But as soon as she sat down beside him, his familiar, striking scent filled her lungs, and suddenly, from literally out of no-sodding-where, she felt her eyes begin to sting. She didn't know why, and she cursed at herself for even beginning to cry – for, why on _earth_ was she even crying now? Tears had sprung to her eyes at least three times this evening already. Was it something in the pumpkin juice in this school? Or was it something in the air? Could she possibly be allergic to something? Or was she really just emotionally out of tune? Merlin, she was like some over-emotional, hormonal pregnant lady.

She tried her best to hide them, turning her face away from him. She knew that he had seen her cry many times before, but right now she felt that if he saw the tears welling up in her eyes she would reveal just how vulnerable she was when it came to the matters of their relationship. She didn't want to seem foolish, weak, or too committed. If anything, that would only give him further reason to coerce to his father's supposed commands, and that was the absolute last thing she wanted to happen.

She sat there, biting her lip and trying to coax away the tears and the burdening feeling inside of her chest, as if a big painful slab of cement had replaced her lungs within her ribcage. The massive and insistent weight behind her eyes – that she figured might be the dam of her tears – annoyed her to a great extent. Her eyes were focused on a vague, blurry point on the floor, or maybe even something beyond it. She didn't know exactly where her stare was directed at, but she could feel his piercing gaze boring into her and she was trying to avoid it until she finally held the reins of her haywire feelings.

She knew that Draco was one of the few people who could read her like an open book, and while she was indeed glad of that, she wanted anything but to be transparent right now.

"Your father didn't approve… did he?" she finally said.

Her voice was so faint and so sad that it almost lengthened the tear on Draco's heart.

"My father's an arse, everyone knows it," he said, trying to sound nonchalant but failing very miserably. He could not even bring himself to deny her question. "It's true. He's a bastard. But this… our… relationship, doesn't concern him," he said.

The word "relationship" had sounded so strange, so foreign to him. It even tasted odd in his mouth. But he liked the word when the image of her smiling face materialized inside of his mind, and hated it when the foreboding pricks of a doomed future gorged his throat and everything else that shared, functioned as a part of Draco's existence. Even his soul. His poor, wretched, pathetic soul. God, how he wished he could sell it just for more time with her. Too bad he had already sold it to his mother.

"What did he say?" she asked, still not meeting his gaze. This was another sign to him that it struck her deeper than both he and she would have ever liked.

"That's not important," he said very firmly, hoping that she would get the hint.

She finally looked up at him. "Then he did say something."

"Look, Hermione," he said, getting a bit frustrated at why she was pushing his father as the Big Topic when it was really not. He couldn't blame her, but he just couldn't help but get a little aggravated although it wasn't necessarily directed at her. He just didn't know that he could feel so useless and pitiful, and he was feeling it now more than ever and it was making him angry. He didn't understand why she was sad. Her eyes were gleaming with tears, and he just couldn't comprehend why that was. Was she crying for him? Was she crying for _them_?

"Who cares about my father?" He said the word "father" with obvious distaste – as purposely as it came naturally. "His bitching and demands mean nothing, and it doesn't concern you, all right? It doesn't concern _us_. And he didn't come over here for Potter, if that's what you're so sad about."

The moment his last comment left his mouth, he knew that that very well would cause problems. In all honesty, he did not know why he had said what he had said. He really did not. It just came out, like unstoppable verbal diarrhea. His damned anger had gotten the best of him and now he had made everything worse. And, even worse – he hadn't even been thinking about Potter at all! How could he have been? He was in this relationship with _Hermione_, not Harry bloody Potter!

Oh how badly he wanted to strangle himself in all of his idiocy. That was pure stupidity, that was. Nothing he did and could ever do in his life could ever top such a dense, dim-witted act.

He hoped that fate would be kind to him and actually let it slip past her ears, and that she hadn't heard it and instead ask him to repeat what he had said, where he would then say exactly what he had said – without, of course, his last sentence.

But she had. Oh, she had.

Mystification dawned on her face before the thunderclouds started to roll in. Her sad, broken eyes were replaced with eyeballs of fire. She looked furious and even a bit incredulous. Draco realized that he actually missed this look of hers.

Eh, but not so much.

"_What_?" she hissed, taken aback in her rage. "You think that I've only been worrying about _Harry_ when Lucius Malfoy came in? Tell me you're joking!"

Draco wanted to tell her that he was, indeed bloody joking, but she left no room for him to explain or even attempt to apologize for his massive vocal blunder.

"I cannot believe you!" she exclaimed, standing up and facing him. "You actually think that I'm in tears over the fact that I would be enough of an idiot to think that Lucius came here for Harry? That's-that's—" She then began to stammer, "that's _insulting_, that's what that is!"

This was his chance, and a smarter man than he was five seconds ago, he took it. "Hermione, I'm sorry, I didn't mean what I said," he said, finally letting out his delayed apology. "I wasn't even thinking about Potter, I don't know why I said it," he explained, sounding bitter in a very Draco Malfoy-esque way. "I _didn't_ mean it," he emphasized, looking straight into her eyes. "I'm sorry." He let out a deep sigh, casting down his troubled eyes. "Merlin, my father walks in on us snogging, and everything is torn to shreds. What's he got? The bloody touch of death?"

Hermione was looking at him, thinking. At least her short moment of anger had eaten up her tears. She knew that he had meant his apology, even though his little comment about Harry _was_ in the area of something he would say. But she could only comprehend his frustration with the current state of things. They had started snogging with the sun and fate beaming down on their glorious faces and they had ended with pitchforks and Lucius Malfoy's expensive, custom-made cane up their arses. She couldn't blame him, and even if she could, she didn't have the heart to. Such an action would only fan the flame that was already presently burning both their lives to the ground.

"If you're frustrated, that's fine. I'm frustrated as well. But you don't see me screaming at you for ridiculous things, do you?" She just had to say it. Had to.

He sighed. "I know. I wanted to talk to you so we could make things better, not make it about Potter, which would definitely be worse. Would you sit down again? The last thing I need is to be reminded of Pansy."

He sounded a bit sour. Hermione pretended she did not hear it.

She immediately sat down again, but kept the witty retort she had been in the process of saying to herself. She did not understand how she could possibly resemble Slytherin harlot Pansy Parkinson, and out of the simple detail that she had been offended, would have shouted at him and then asked (but then only to deny it), but she knew that that would just get them started again. Their bantering selves were still there, and they could certainly argue so fantastically that she was convinced they deserved a golden trophy, but they needed to push their pride aside and just let this conversation happen. She figured that that was the winning concoction.

"I'm going to ignore that," she partially huffed, looking down on her feet, "last comment. And now I clearly can see we're both in a very foul mood… but you said that we needed to talk, and I concur." She looked up and met his eyes, and still felt that flittering inside her chest whenever their eyes connected. To her, it sparked excitement to leap within her bones, the butterflies to release into her stomach, and… well, oddly, intimacy. A very different yet extraordinary sort of intimacy.

She quietly cleared her throat, looking away for a quick second. "I am worried about your father. I'm scared to death at what he could do – not to me, but to you. And… I don't know what he said to you, and I won't force you to tell me, but I trust you'll make the best decision." She involuntarily inwardly cringed when she said this. "After all, you're Head Boy and so that means you're perfectly capable of handling things on your own." She was also to add on "except" and be critically frank, but she thought the pair of them could manage without it.

"My father isn't as powerful as you think he is," he chuckled, though his laugh came out as derisive and heartless. His statement was partly true. All right, maybe thirteen-fifteenths true. But it was still remotely true. A bit. "And he didn't say anything, don't worry," he told her as confidently and assertively as he could. He needed to gain her trust in this. "He was just… he received word about me getting into another fight, and he came to tell me how disappointed he was in me and to clean up my act so that I wouldn't taint the family name."

He smirked. A _brilliant_ lie.

Hermione looked confused. "Really?"

He nodded, running a hand through his hair. He had never felt guilty about lying to anyone before, but it was different with Hermione. Of course, this almost made him want to roll his eyes. _Everything_ was different with Hermione. Surprise surprise. But there was this tugging inside his body that made him want to tell her everything, exterior and in. But it was impossible. Where would that land them? What would she think of him then? He had certainly done more than a few illegal things for the Dark Lord before his switching of the railroads of his life – one of which he had done "incorrectly," which had gotten him where he was now: the lowest of the snake pits – and he couldn't bear to tell her that he was actually worse than she had thought, not after just proving to her that he really was not so bad.

"So will that finally calm you down about the whole Lucius business?" he asked her. "I mean, he gave me hell, but he isn't Satan, you know."

There was a small stretch of silence.

"Though sometimes – most of the time – the resemblance _is_ uncanny," he then mumbled.

Hermione was looking at him very intently. She was trying to see if he was telling her the truth or if he was, in fact, fibbing. It was too close to call. He looked as if he was being honest with her, but her conscience vocally disagreed.

"And you're certain about this?" she asked him.

"The last thing I would do is lie for my father," he solidly told her. He sounded so certain.

She was quiet. "All right," she finally said. "I trust you. I believe you."

His face was impassive, but Draco felt as if someone had just mercilessly and crudely stabbed him with a fork in the gut. _'Oh God,_' he thought, almost pained just to think it. _'She believes me. She actually believes me. She _trusts_ me.'_ He didn't know whether to rejoice in the wonderful news or officially stamp himself as the Worst Boyfriend In The World. The Worst Human Being In The World would actually be more accurate. But, no, wait. His father had already taken that spot.

He could only stare at her. If he tried to smile, he figured the muscles in his face would react strangely due to the odd feeling he had inside his stomach. Of course, that had never been a problem before. But because he just had to have one of the cleverest girlfriends in the whole of the earth, even as trusting as she was, she would somehow notice and he would then blow his cover. Funny how the mortal face could so easily betray.

But as occupied as he was with his thoughts, he could visibly tell that something else was bothering her. It was written all over her face. She seemed almost shameful, guilty. Even the faint freckles peppered across her face seemed awfully sad. Concern and worry rooted inside him like a blossoming seed, sweeping all of his self-pitying views away.

He was watching her very closely now. Her arched brows were corrugated and her lips could not be distinguished from a horizontal line. She looked deeply disturbed. He had a feeling there was something she had to tell him but she was trying to figure out if such an action was necessary. He recognized this look.

"Draco," she said, at last. There was something inside her eyes, as if she was trying hard to conceal her emotions from him. Like she was trying to establish a shield there. Granted, she was not doing so good, but he knew that if she kept at it for a few more years, kept detaching herself from everyone around her, she would have something like the Great Wall of China inside there. (He had read something about that in one of her Muggle books. Very impressive. That is, for Muggles.)

"There's something I need to tell you. I… I hope you won't be angry with me."

Practical that he was, he responded, "Well, it depends."

Hermione gave him a look.

"I can't guarantee you anything, Granger," he truthfully informed her. "But I'll try my best to contain my temper, if that's what you're asking of me." He wondered what it could possibly be that she needed to tell him to first ask him to restrain his anger.

She sighed. "I suppose that'll have to do." She made sure not to let her eyes stray from his, as she slipped her fingers inside his, squeezing reassuringly. "I…. Harry knows. About us."

Bewilderment raced across his handsome face. "What?" he asked her, not sure at all that he had heard right.

"He knows," she said again, firming the grip she had on his hand. It was a precaution, for if she held on, he would therefore have extra baggage and couldn't stand up and run to kill Harry as fast as he really could. Her plan was undeniably clever. She wasn't called Head Girl for nothing.

"_What_?" he said again, his face scrunching up from disbelief, shock, and anger. "How? Did you _tell_ him?"

"No," she said quickly, shaking her head. "I didn't. I didn't want him to find out either, believe me, but it just happened. And… well, he's not exactly fine with it, but he said he wouldn't say anything. It's all right." She took a deep breath. "It's all right, Draco."

"No, it isn't all right," he suddenly bellowed, standing up, and with Hermione not expecting this, their hands were separated. She watched him with wide, earnest eyes. She prayed he would understand, but maybe that was a bit too much to ask for. But why couldn't he just accept it? There was nothing they could do, and Harry had told her that he wouldn't say a word. So, then, what was the problem?

"_How_ could he have found out?" he icily asked her. "Does he have bloody mind reading powers or something?"

"No!" she exclaimed, getting to her feet, as well. "No, he doesn't have mind reading powers, but does it really have to be so horrible to have someone know about us? Aren't you at least the slightest bit relieved?"

"_How_ could I be relieved?" he asked her, his tone harsh and cutting. "It's _Potter_, for Merlin's sake! In case you've forgotten, we're not exactly 'puppies and hugs' with each other!"

"And that's _his_ fault?" she raised her voice, unable to control herself. "Maybe, Draco, if you've even shown a hint of civility, of benevolence, then it wouldn't have to be that way! Maybe you two would actually be able to treat each other like actual humans, and not as if the other was the gum you just scraped off the sole of your shoe!" She looked furious. "_Just_ maybe!"

"So you're saying it's _my_ fault, then?" His voice was boisterous.

"Maybe!" yelled Hermione.

"Look," he said, nearing her, his face expressing every ounce of rage and aggravation he had boiling inside his body. "Don't act as if all your friends are little saints, all right? They're not." This was the first time she had seen him truly sneer at her in weeks. "_Nobody's_ a saint."

"Why are you making this so difficult?" she fumed. "Why, Draco? I'm not saying they're saints, they're far from it. But at least they try. At least they _try_."

"Only fools try to be saints," he scoffed. "_I_ try to be _nice_. Hermione, if I didn't try, we'd be sharpening our knives right now, polishing our wands. The both of us," he hissed. "So I advise you think twice before telling me that I don't try."

"What makes it so hard to accept this?" she asked him. "That Harry knows, that he accepted the fact that I have feelings for you and that you have feelings for me and that we're together? Yes, he wasn't exactly jumping with joy, but at least he tried his best to keep open-minded about the subject! Don't you get it, Draco? And, I hate to say it, but if you can't just acknowledge—"

"I wanted _you_ in my life, not Potter!" he spat. "I didn't pay a two for one price, all right?"

Something about what he said, and how he said it, made her throat close up and just look at him with sadness, disorder, incredulity, and anger brewing like an oncoming squall inside her dark orbs. The look on his face, faintly red from all of the passionate shouting, and the sharp, cold edge of his eyes, shamefully made her wonder how she could have thought that he would have been okay with it.

Was it his pride? Was it his damn Malfoy pride?

Her eyes stung, and as she tried to blink the blurriness away, she felt them roll down her cheeks, leaving a warm, moist trail. Her hands were balled into tight fists at her sides, and she could almost feel her whole body trembling.

"Well, then, I'm sorry," she brought herself to say. "It's all or nothing."

Oh, how it broke her heart to say such a thing. And it broke her heart even more, crushing it and mincing it into fine powder, to realize just how true it was. If he could not cope with the simple detail alone that one of her closest friends knew, she did not know whether she could let this continue. She could not choose him over her friends. She would not choose him over her friends.

For a moment, he looked stunned. It was very clear to her that he hadn't expected her to say something so threatening, so serious and so aggressive, but she owed it to herself to take a stand. She hadn't even expected herself to say it, but she did. She did, and it was all out in the open now. She _had_ to say something. They couldn't shout at each other forever.

The sobs teeming within her near-to-bursting lungs were painful. So painful that she was almost certain her chest was going to crumble in from the excruciating ache. The long-drawn silence made her feel all of the emotions and nerves shriek and wrestle violently in protest, telling her that she didn't want this. And they were right. She did not want this. But if he was going to let her go, if he was going to lose her from something so stupid and childish as a childhood grudge, then there was nothing she could do. She could not take back a declaration so daring.

Not in a million years.

"Harry _knows_," she repeated to him earnestly, tears flowing down her cheeks. "Why is that so hard to accept? There's no labor on your behalf, none at all. Just… understanding it is as simple as things can get. That's all I'm asking for. You don't have to talk to him, to try and be his friend – you don't have to do _anything_. I'm asking you this for both our sakes. But if you can't do it, if you can't just push aside your pride and ego for just a second, then… I'm sorry. It can't work this way." She sighed through her tears, looking at him pleadingly. "It just can't."

There was no denying that she hoped, prayed, and wished that Draco would just relent and give in so that she really didn't have to be the one to end things. She couldn't stand it that the one day everything managed to so wrong – Lucius Malfoy walking in on them snogging, Harry having to confront her, and Draco saying that she somewhat resembled pansy Parkinson – they would fall to pieces like the driest of chalk. Today's agonizing events were supposed to make them stronger as a couple, not break them apart like a badly dislocated shoulder.

The silence was an unbearable lifetime. He remained quiet, staring at her and not once blinking. His face seemed resolute, but the color was now slowly fading from his cheeks, making him as pale as marble.

She was afraid of what he was going to say, and he was certainly keeping her in awful suspense by not answering like this. Her heart was holding on by one long, muffled beat, her intake and outtake of air limited by the sore condition of her lungs.

Long, suffering seconds ticked by.

He didn't say a word.

Finally fed up with the silence, she had made up her mind to just demand an answer right then and there, a straight immediate answer, to snip the stalk of rubbish anticipation right in the bud. It felt ridiculous. This was _not_ a Muggle soap opera; this was not some bubblegum, unbearable teen movie in the sappy, high point of the climax. Long pauses were _not_ supposed to happen. No, not in real life – not now. It was so tired that she almost wanted to scream. She was going to die in the middle of one of these long pauses, she was sure of it.

But the deep sigh he released deteriorated her oncoming words of impatience and decision. Then, just as she stood still and stared into his stormy gaze, she saw a glaze of clarity she had never seen before. A certainty, a sureness that she absolutely knew hadn't been there before. It was strong; it was vivid, glowing like a holy light inside the metallic, molten orbs of deep silver. And she didn't know why, but it hit home. Her heart was suddenly filled with a new feeling of love she had not once known in her life, bursting, beating loudly like a tribal conga drum. She felt it swelling within her chest.

He neared her until they were but less than a foot of distance away from each other. And then he spoke. His drawl, serious and deep, no longer blemished from their exchange of rage and frustration, had never sounded so glorious to her ears. Nor so… meant.

"As much as I can't stand Potter," he said to her, "there are worse things."

Finally letting out the breath her lungs had been aching to release, she couldn't remember ever being so happy to hear such a thing in her entire life.


	34. A Silver Ring

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: My name is not J.K. Rowling, so that would mean no part of HP or the HP franchise belongs to me.

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**Quick Update!** Aren't you all surprised?Due to popular demand: Lo and behold, Draco's trusty guitar makes a comeback! 

This chapter is dedicated to all of the cool guitar-players out there, just like my beta. ;)

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**A Silver Ring**

"_**She looks into my eyes, and all is lost to the vortex inside my chest."**_

She knew it had to have taken quite a blow to his pride. Chasing women or saying anything even tenuously romantic was not his best suit. He was just sly, handsome, cunning, and oozing with physical attraction. He made it a point, a massive point, to inform her that he did not chase after women – not even occasionally. Quite the contrary, really, because it was the women who did all of the chasing. Malfoys never chased anything. To do so would be absolutely pitiful.

Though Hermione did not exactly call what he did "chasing," she knew what he meant. He was trying to defend himself, furiously trying to thicken the line between him and Prince Charming. She could see very well that he did not want himself to be confused with someone very idealistic, romantic or perfect and noble. But she couldn't see why anyone would. He didn't resemble Prince Charming at all. Though Hermione did like him very much (more than was allowed), the two were just too different. One: Prince Charming had dark hair. Draco did not. Two: Prince Charming probably did not call anyone names. Draco called Prince Charming himself a colorful assortment of vulgar names.

He tried acting very blasé about the subject. After all, she figured, his pride had suffered a great raw whipping just to materialize those words inside his mind alone. She was certain that actually uttering it aloud must have been complete torture. She didn't think he meant to say something meltingly sweet or romantic. She had a feeling that if he genuinely tried getting away with something extremely passionate, he'd probably choke in the process of doing so. She wasn't saying it was impossible, yet it _was_ impossible because instead of living in the moment, in the spontaneity, he acted and treated each situation as if he himself was sitting before him and criticizing his every move. Undoubtedly, it came with his pride. He was so set on making sure he did not look like a fool that it became apparent that if he did just strip away that annoying wall and did manage to look like a fool once every while (it was called being human, but she doubted he would accept that) he would be much more likable. As a person.

But the bottom line was: he was no romancer. He did not whisper sweet nothings into anyone's ear, not even hers. Yes, he could very easily admit that he was sexy and dripping with intelligence, and armed with such a handsome face, the battle was over before it could even get the chance to start. He got girls. Effortlessly. Even girls he did not want, for example, exhibit A: Pansy Parkinson. But he had to work hard to maintain the girl he did want that he formerly did not want and detested as she did him. Work. He had to push himself to actually say the things in his mind that were supposed to be kept hidden from the public forever, bolted and locked shut. It was painfully unfair.

But he did not complain when she stood and stared at him – instead of leaving – with an expression that made his heart almost want to burst. He did not complain when her face brightened up with relief and happiness and love. He did not complain when her tears stopped and she let him hold her. Instead he felt a bit woozy, dizzy and lightheaded, like everything was just too surreal. And when her owl, Guinevere, had awoken, and she went over to feed her owl some of its treats and visit her like she was an actual person, he watched her for a second before lowering his gaze.

Yes, he was threatened by romance. It was absurd because this had already been going on for more than a month, but he was threatened by the possibility of the actual, deep, with-every-breath-it-grows love – as if it was some sort of weed. He'd already gone where no Malfoy had ever even dared to go, and his stomach was in knots. What was to happen to him if he somehow, some way, was forced to get "soft" in fate's mad antics of adolescent affairs? While he was absolutely, one hundred percent certain that he would never go "soft," he still had a god-given right to be frightened.

But there were much more serious shadows looming over his head to linger around this subject.

Looking over at her and watching her speak to her owl in that charming, polite way she did, he knew what he was most worried about. When the time came (and its arrival was guaranteed to come soon), would he let her go? Would he be able to? He had to… but how much pain was going to be involved? On his part? Would he be able to recognize it? Was emotional pain far different from any other sort of pain? He'd never experienced it. Well, he had caught a taste of it when she had said her little threat that had made his throat feel as if it were in a hundred-century drought. But he had a feeling it would be terrible. Far more terrible.

_'Of course I can let her go,'_ he mentally scoffed to himself as he watched her. '_Malfoys never get attached to anything. I can let her go – I _will_. Those are my orders and Mother will have my head if I don't follow them. Or, worse – Voldemort will have both our heads. And Snape's slimy head as well.'_

It was duty and obligation over his heart. He never actually knew this nonsense really existed – or that he actually had a heart instead of a bucket – until dear old fate had dropped Hermione Granger onto his lap and his brain had almost fallen out from their progressive stages of The Fever. That was what he called the days he had fancied her but denied it – that, or The Madness. Yes, he had a knack for suitable titles. If he wasn't already filthy rich, he was convinced he could make an empire out of the business of advertisement.

But as his eyes outlined her figure as her back was turned to him, he couldn't help but feel that pinch. When she turned around, laughing and smiling happily, blushing a bit because he had heard her make her baby-like talk and coo to her owl – which was quite embarrassing for her but it would have made him smile on any other day if he wasn't so full of the most depressing of shit - it began to throb much more noticeably. And it began to grow… until suddenly, his head felt heavy and his ribcage felt as if it had shrunk twenty times in size. Also, to make things even creepier, he swore he could hear the unnaturally loud fast ticks of a clock in the background somewhere. Or maybe it was just in his mind – an annoying subconscious thing, or the sort.

"Draco?" she called out. Her smile faded slowly as she brushed off her hands, straightening out her skirt before sitting down next to him. He looked down. "You're quiet," she observed. She made it clear that Draco Malfoy being quiet was very peculiar. "Is there something wrong?"

_Yes_, he instantaneously wanted to tell her. _There is something wrong. Everything's wrong_. _I hope you can forgive me if I die on you before graduation_. But, the thing was, if he did die on her and Snape and his mother, their plan would be ripped apart into irreparable shreds and the remaining would be found out. Snape and his mother would be hunted down and killed – and probably in the most gruesome way possible, just because Voldemort was a very sick bastard. So the notion of him dying even minutes before they achieved the top stages of their heist presented many consequences that were too dire to even speak of. He was also worried about Hermione. He was pretty sure that Voldemort would also throw her in there too if he somehow found out, that sadistic, chalky, nose-less prick. So, in a nutshell: he _couldn't_ die.

The actual debate was whether he should tell her the truth. That he was worried to death about her safety even though it was a nationwide fact that Malfoys did not worry. Or that he was trying to figure out how on earth he was going to push her away without hurting her.

Boy, was he in a knot. So he decided to lie. After all, lies were invented for a reason, weren't they?

"No," he answered. He looked at her. "Does Weasley know?" He knew it was a random question, but it had been trifling in his mind for a bit, and it was important that he knew.

Hermione seemed to be a bit thrown off by his question, as it was completely out of the blue, but it only took her a moment. "No. Harry said that he wouldn't tell him because I told him I would… eventually."

"And when exactly is 'eventually'?"

She smiled a small smile. "Hopefully never."

Draco appreciated this. It even brought a small urge to smile to his stony face. He was such a bad influence. "Splendid."

"I just don't know how I'll tell him," she told him. "It'll be difficult… and I think it might be best if you were on the other side of the castle when I do. And probably for that whole month, as well."

"Ah," he said. "Remarkable to see just how much his temper matches his hair."

Hermione laughed softly, but it was a sort of weak, distracted laugh and Draco could see that she was deeply panicking about telling her clueless friend. Not that he would ever admit it, but Weasley posed as a massive threat. His temperamental nature could leak out their secret, and then the whole school would know. And, knowing how fast gossip traveled 'round these castle halls, the junior Death Eaters in this place wanting to kiss Voldemort's arse (he knew a few) would enlighten him with the happy news of Draco's very close association to Harry Potter's famous Mudblood friend, and Draco's very own skin would then be hunted down. It was very dangerous indeed.

Hermione knew how dangerous it already was, but if she knew what Draco knew, the little graph inside of her mind would then be escalated into the highest level of danger, A.K.A. We're All Going To Die. He was afraid what sort of state it might plunge her into. She might turn delirious. She might become an even bigger basketcase. Either way, he had a feeling it wasn't going to be pretty.

But as they were simply silent and he looked back at her, he noticed that she looked as if she was about to cry again. Either that, or she needed to sneeze something terrible, but his instinct told him it was the former. Instantly, he knew what he had to do to prevent such a thing from happening. She'd already cried about two or three times around him, and he didn't know what he'd do if she burst into a series of new tears. Standing by and watching her downfall of tears like it was some sort of water show made him feel completely useless. The tiny switches inside of his brain and all of the revolving gears and chains were pushed into hyper drive, and his lungs tightened up as if they were individually trying to fit in into impossibly small corsets. And so to hopefully stop her sadness and worry – he kissed her.

It was an impulsive, artless action. Knowing the sort of girl she was, if he had kissed her in any other situation, he would get slapped a good one for pissing around. But this was not any other situation, thus she did not give him a good one across the face even though her spine did shoot rigid and stiff from reasonable shock.

He hoped that would keep them preoccupied for a few moments. Luckily, it would.

Predictably, she was taken by surprise. She'd been wallowing inside her gloomy, cavernous thoughts one minute, and then couldn't breathe because Draco's lips were against hers the next. She knew that he didn't mean to momentarily suffocate her, but she thought he could have at least given her a warning.

However, that small health hazard ceased to matter as she grew into his kiss. He kissed her slowly, tantalizingly, raising his hands to frame her face and then slide down to wrap around her waist. He pulled her closer, deepening the kiss.

With Hermione, a kiss was never just a kiss. At least, not with Draco. Each time he did kiss her - each time he pressed his mouth against hers – it was different. Always an experience, she would say. But it wasn't just that he was a phenomenal kisser, or that he certainly knew how to make a girl's spine tingle. It was the feeling he bestowed, the feeling gathered in the kiss that continued to flow until their lips parted. It was like… white electricity. She just didn't think any other boy's kiss could compare to Draco's. And maybe that was just on account of how much she fancied him, but he expressed a different side to him when he kissed her. A less cynical, sarcastic side. And if he could only handle himself as well as he kissed, then she was certain the world would be a much better place.

Nevertheless, she didn't think she could live with a nicer Draco. It would just be too unusual. It'd be like living with a happier, pleasant, twinkle-eyed, pink-robed Snape: so shocking that it'd drive her to clinical madness.

As different as different was, she felt something unlike and distinct in his kiss this time. Something much more powerful, something so felt and so strong that when he kissed her harder, her kisses rivaled his. It was fiery, passionate. But there was… desperation. A feeling of coming loss. And she didn't understand it, nor could she even begin to (especially with the way he was kissing her), but even her heart beat with ache when he held her close to him.

A surge of power rippled throughout her whole body, making even her toes shiver. This was certainly a kiss worthy of the books.

Thinking heavy thoughts were inconceivable when participating in such a pleasant activity. Draco had never kissed her this way before. Urgent, yes, impatiently, yes. But never one that was fueled by a form of desperation, a feeling that he had only been introduced to today. Clocks made him livid. Talking about her friends was more a complete waste of bloody time than it had been before. He could comprehend that he didn't have much time with her, but a part of him wished he couldn't. It was better wasting away in that misty confusion and daze as if one was terribly hung over than coming to that dreadful awareness. He hated to say it and he never thought he would, but he didn't want them to move from this spot. He didn't want time to slip from his iron grasp and escape and take away the strange completeness of his heart. Who cares if feeling so complete was bizarre and odd? What man would not do anything for it?

There was no denying he was an undeserving person. It was a massive stroke of luck and the workings of God's magical weaving fingers that he received what he once thought to be a grand, wicked curse. This had proven to him that there was actually a thing such as luck; one that presented you with a horribly unsightly seed that then blossomed into a beautiful flower that was your pride and joy before wilting slowly and painfully in a water famine. That was exactly how it was. Presentation of an ugly, unwanted thing, wonderful surprise, attachment, then death.

How unjust life was. It almost made him want to shake a balled fist to the sky and demand an answer as to why in the world things had to be this way. He should have known he could never have something pleasant and actually good for his well-being and soul without having it stolen away from him. Oh, and for more tallies in the humiliation subdivision: by his mother. Snape also helped in ruining the momentary sunshine, that greasy traitor.

He figured he'd kiss her all he could. It was all he could do.

If anything, it was overwhelming. That was the feeling he had felt so strongly that it made all his blood rush to his head when she had said what she had said: "It's all or nothing." Because as if he had been emotionally detached before, a tiny explosion, a burst of truth, had happened that ignited a spark inside of his head that flushed away all of the confusing darkness. He had known exactly what he was to say. He had known exactly what he wanted, what he wanted to say. Inside his head, there was no rattle of bewilderment, or a haste franticness of what to say. It was right there, in flashing lights and a distracting, neon-yellow leotard with a huge, colorful headdress. _'All,'_ his mind had been shoving in his face. _'All, you bastard. Just say it. You know it's what you want. So don't be a coward and JUST SAY IT!'_ He hadn't cared about Potter right then and there. He couldn't have given a rat's arse. All right, maybe a little, but it wasn't enough to fight off all of the screaming banshees that had routinely gathered inside his brain.

To hell with Potter. He could deal with that little bint later.

He was so certain he wanted her. God, and it made it all worse. Where would this put him? It broke his heart just thinking of what he'd have to do for the sake of their plan. It was all her fault. It was all her blasted fault. If she hadn't bewitched him or done something equally devious and cruel to make him fancy her so horribly, he wouldn't be in this situation. He wouldn't be suffering like he was now. He wouldn't be feeling as if his heart was sick and ill and decaying. He cared for her so much that he couldn't imagine doing anything else, not even when he racked his brain like a customer trying to barter a merchant. He was so deep in the shit that he almost couldn't breathe.

However, when he realized that they were now rolling around ("rolling around" was not a very apt phrase for what they were doing) on his silken bed with her beneath him, snogging furiously, his eyes shot wide open.

It also seemed as if Hermione just realized exactly what they were doing, as her eyes opened, just as well.

They pulled apart so quickly that Hermione almost fell over herself.

They ended up on opposite sides of the bed.

"We… we weren't…" she struggled to get out, breathing heavily, after their lightning-speed separation.

"I… I don't think so," Draco replied, also trying to catch his breath. But as he looked down, his shirt was unbuttoned halfway down, and he remembered his hands inching up far above the inside of her shirt than she would have regularly allowed.

His head snapped up at her, his eyes even wider than before.

As well as her skirt.

"Oh my God," breathed Hermione, shocked and panicking, "it was going to happen. We were going to do it. We were halfway there and we didn't even realize it! How much more dense could we get?"

"It's not your fault," Draco told her, trying to reassure her that there was no harm done. But, apparently to her it appeared as if they had just committed a ghastly crime. "It was mine. I apologize. I… didn't know."

"We were… we were going to have…" She couldn't even say it. "_Sex_!" The word flew from her mouth like a departing rocket ship: in a shroud of fire, smoke and dust. It was as if she had never said the word before.

Draco's brain almost exploded at the word. Sex? Was that what he was thinking about now? It was like a belly flop: surprising and shameful and embarrassing even instances after the flopping was done.

Despite his actions, he had not being thinking they were actually going to have sex here in his bedroom. He didn't think he _could_ be the one to take her virginity, or steal her flower or whatever it was that teenage girls called it, nor would she allow him to. Even though there was a part of him that very much wanted to – undoubtedly the male part – he was not a sexual animal on the prowl for Virgin Mary's, and he would feel horrible if he did actually let himself do such a thing to her. It seemed unruly and even gruesomely sinful to do so.

She deserved better, maybe some other bloke who'd been "saving" himself, as well. (That thought did strike a nerve, however.) Hermione Granger was too good for a man like him, even though he was convinced he could rival any other possible candidate – in the wit and looks and wealth department, at least, hands down.

But never in the goodness and chivalry area. If there were such thing as a mortal, earth-living saint, he would probably be the one to kill him. That was how he was. That, or make his life a living hell, which was really the same thing on some levels.

His next sentence fled from his mouth without his knowing. "Are you going to hex me?" He was out of breath. It was something a coward would say, but whatever. His mind was reeling.

Hermione was surprised. "_What_?" she exclaimed. "No!"

"Right," he then agreed, asking himself why on earth he had asked her that. "Because why would you? We did nothing." Now he was convinced they were both delirious. He'd never talked this way before. Ever.

"We almost did! We could've been stark naked by now, rolling around in our own _sweat_!" It was a surprising visual. Hermione did not even know she could form such dirty sentences.

"Oh, would you drop it?" he suddenly snapped.

That seemed to not reach her ears. She did not react and was still fretting. "Oh, Merlin. I've got to leave, leave before anything else can happen. I'm such an idiot!" She got up quickly, smoothing down her hair that was disarray due to the truth that during the first few moments, Draco's hands had been quite busy with them. She pulled down the hem of her skirt, trying to take out the wrinkles on her shirt. Her face was flushed and her bee-stung lips were now mumbling incoherently.

"Wait, Hermione," he said, also getting up and buttoning up his shirt. "You don't have to leave."

He'd never attested to her leaving his room before. Maybe that was because – oh yeah, they had never been so close to having sex. But that was not why he didn't want her to leave. If anything, he didn't even want to have sex. He just wanted to spend a bit more time with her, that was all. What was this whole entire day's purpose if not to teach him that?

"Yes, I do," she almost screamed shrilly. She was fidgety. "Don't you _get_ it, Draco?" She turned around to face him. "We were about to _do_ it! Your hands were inside my shirt, up my skirt – and I didn't even notice! I _liked_ it! And then there I was, unbuttoning your shirt as well! It was like we'd lost complete control of our bodies! Like we were possessed by _Satan_! We can't let that happen _ever_ again!"

Merlin, she'd never been so uptight like this before.

"But we didn't even do anything, Granger! We caught ourselves right in time! Doesn't that count for _something_?"

"I just can't—that word—Draco, why are you making this so difficult—I can't—"

"Would you speak in complete sentences?" he almost yelled.

"We almost had _sex_!" she screamed. "Doesn't that worry you? Doesn't that _scare_ you?"

"Yes!" he replied. "_And_ no!"

"Why?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know. But would that have been so terrible?" Hermione's eyes widened at this, far wider than Draco had ever seen her do before. "I just mean that… I don't know. I care about you, Hermione, and I wouldn't ever force you to—"

"Wait, Draco," she said, but had already somewhat calmed down, though still frazzled from shock. She sighed, a few moments' worth of silence passing them. She was wringing her hands, but she walked towards him. His eyes followed her intently until her face was barely a good foot away. She released her hands and laid one delicately on his cheek. Her words were still shaky. "I know you care about me, and… I care about you, too." Somehow, saying this to him was very weird and not, all at the same time. It was the truth, and that made it not so peculiar. "A lot. More than you know, I think. But… _Neville_ cares about me," she said, letting out a snort of laughter as she said it. "Ron cares about me, Harry cares about me—"

"No," he said quickly in an annoyed tone, cutting her off, "_not_ in that way, Granger. You know what I mean." He grabbed her hand from his face. He didn't know how to say what he wanted to. He didn't have the words. There weren't enough words. They weren't the right words. _Damn_ the English language for having such insufferable words! "I… Do you _really_ have to bring the entire Gryffindor House into this?"

Hermione laughed, shaking her head. "No. But you know what I mean."

Then they were quiet for a while. Draco was still trying to find the words how to say what he meant, what he felt, but it was like trying to be a rocket scientist (he'd heard those folks were really smart in the Muggle world) from the womb. There was extra, unneeded pressure as well, because she was standing there, waiting for him to say something. He could feel that she wanted to leave. How could he make her stay _and_ tell her that what he felt for her was truly more serious than stupid Potter's, Weasley's, and Longbottom's feelings for her combined? He had said that he cared for her, but hell, "care" was such a hideous word! In _both_ the Muggle and wizarding world! And he couldn't tell her that he fancied her, because she already knew that. Adding "really, really, really" in the beginning of the word wouldn't do much, either.

He was screwed. _Screwed_.

He thought of gestures. He'd try kissing her, but he'd already done that and he didn't think she'd fall for it again. Maybe a monologue, but that would be pathetic and he couldn't even remember any monologues, let alone any good romantic ones. He'd give her flowers but that was also pathetic and he didn't have any flowers lying around, nor did he feel like magicking them from his wand. Nothing was good enough for this woman!

"Look," she finally sighed. "I've really—"

Suddenly, a bright gleam caught his eye.

"Wait," he said, interrupting her. "Be quiet, Granger."

Words were not in his favor, but his wealth was always in his favor. Score for Draco Malfoy! Thank God for light and its tricks to make things shine and catch the human eye!

He took his hands and slipped off his House ring from his finger. The silver, real but enchanted to feel weightless, and the finest of all the silver and ring-makers due to his father's request, was untainted and unblemished, nor scratched in any way. He held it up to her face, watching her eyes enlarge, once again.

"Here," he said. He never thought he'd hear himself say this. "I want you to have this."

She gaped at him, astonished and confused. "_What_?"

"I want you to have my House ring," he said to her, much more clearly and loudly, as if she was deaf.

"I heard you," she quipped bitterly. "I was just wondering if you've gone and lost your head." If he was going to give her anything, she thought he'd give her one of his expensive quills or books or something. Not his ring. "But, your ring, no, I can't—"

"Look, I know you hate Slytherin House," he said, grabbing her hand and trying to slip it onto her finger. "But you need to ignore your sodding Gryffindor pride for the time-being." They both stared as he easily slipped it on her finger, but noticed as it was loose-fitting.

"It's loose," she observed.

"I know," he said. "I'll just make it smaller to fit you precisely. The wonders of magic, Granger. Now, just—" He started to turn away to fetch his wand, but she stopped him, grabbing his arm.

Oh, Merlin. He was serious. He was actually bloody serious.

This however, even though she really could not accept his ring, made her smile. It was sweet. Sure, he hadn't the lines or monologues to match it, and he had been quite irritable about it, but he was giving her his ring. His Slytherin House class ring. That had to count for something.

"No, it's all right, Draco," she said, not being able to keep back her smile. "Thank you. This is… fantastic. But I can't accept it," she said, sliding it off of her finger.

Her gentle smile was so sincere that Draco wanted to scream at her to just take the blasted ring before he grabbed it, forced it on her finger, and charmed it so that she would never be able to take it off.

"I'm sorry." She held it out for him.

"I'm not taking it back," he simply told her.

"Why not?" she asked, her smile fading. He didn't answer, and she was getting a bit annoyed. "I can't wear it, anyway. It'd slip off and fall off somewhere, and this probably cost more than my school tuition and my house combined. You'd yell at me if I lose it, and someone's going to pick it up somewhere and sell it or something. But even if I didn't lose it, if I wore it, Ron and about the whole Gryffindor House, the other Houses, and everyone else who occupies this castle would notice, find out that you don't have yours, and then we'd be found out! It would only cause trouble! And, yes, _because_ of my Gryffindor pride, I cannot wear a Slytherin ring. We made an oath."

"An _oath_?" he asked disbelievingly, in shock at why she was making this so hard. He could only imagine a situation if she needed a heart or organ donor or something of the sort. She'd probably pay them to actually keep the organ that she needed before she died. "_What_ oath?"

"An oath! Does it matter _what_ oath? The _Gryffindor_ oath!"

"You're being difficult," he told her irritably. "Either you take the ring, or you stay here with me, or you do both."

"I can't _wear_ it!" she repeated.

"Then you stay here with me."

"I can't do that either! Why can't you just—?"

"Granger, I _want_ you to stay. If you haven't noticed that by now, I suggest your get your senses attuned. Everything. Hearing, sight, the like. We aren't going to strip off our clothes to have sex, we aren't going to have sex, we aren't going to watch someone else having sex, we aren't going to linger around the subject of sex! Is that good enough for you?" He was clearly aggravated at this point.

Hermione sighed. She knew she couldn't win this. Suddenly, she saw something from the corner of her eye, hidden away in a distant corner, and a devilish smile diseased her face.

Draco's eyes flickered in alarm from her abrupt and unexpected reaction.

"Fine," she told him. "I'll stay – if you play your guitar for me."

His face scrunched up in incredulity. "What? My guitar?"

She was beaming proudly, crossing her arms. "Yes. That's right, your guitar."

"Why?" he wanted to know, like it was beyond him why anyone would want to hear him play a Muggle intrument. Granted, he was bloody good at it, but still. He'd played much more impressive instruments, and nobody was asking him to play those.

"Is that even important?"

"Yes," he told her. "Because you're bartering, and you have to have a reason when you're bartering!"

"Because I want to hear you play," she finally explained. "Now, what will it be? I stay; you play your guitar. You don't play your guitar, I leave."

It seemed the ring was out of the sequence, which was a shame, because Draco had gotten attached to that ring, even though his father did have it made for his entire House. And he had also thought it was the perfect… gesture. "Fine," he finally relented. "One song."

"Two."

"_One_."

"_Two_, or I leave."

"For Merlin's sakes, woman!" he said in frustration. "Fine, two! Are you satisfied?" Her smile, a familiar one that he'd seen before, clearly spelled out a proud victory. They then shook hands to their deal, but, just as she was passing him, he reached underneath her tresses at the nape of her neck and grabbed the backing of her silver necklace. This caused her to suddenly stop, being pulled back, and also make a funny, choking noise. Draco clamped one hand down hard on her shoulder, her mess of brown curls taking up his whole peripheral vision. He also caught a whiff of that hint of lavender-vanilla that sent euphoria flooding through his nostrils.

"_Draco_!" she scolded, turning her head, glaring at him from the corner of her eye. "_What_ in the hell are you doing? Have you gone bonkers? You _choked_ me! You could have _killed_ me!"

"No, I could have not," he dryly disagreed. He held out his hand, extending it all the way in front of her. "The ring. Give it to me."

"Why?" she asked, but it was too late as he snatched it away from her hand.

He unclasped her necklace, slipping the in ring through its opening. It slid down to the front of her necklace, in the midst of her chest. He clasped the necklace back shut.

"If I'm going to be playing two sodding songs for you," he told her, "and the ring's too loose on your finger, then you're going to wear it around your neck. That way you can hide it inside your shirt, and no one can see it unless you purposely show it out. No buts, no objections."

Smirking his victory smirk as well, Draco Malfoy had the last say in this one.

oooo

"Are silk pillows and sheets and silk everything really necessary?" she asked bemusedly, plucking one of his dark emerald cushions from underneath her. The silk was exceptionally smooth and soft underneath her fingertips, and she could've sworn she was actually holding a sack of water if she hadn't known for certain she was holding a pillow.

"I don't know," he asked, plopping down next to her. "I never thought about it."

Eyebrows hitched up her forehead, she nodded. "Oh." She sighed. "I suppose you don't think about the starving children in Ethiopia, then," she mumbled under her breath.

"What was that?" he asked her.

"Nothing. I'm just utterly amazed at your wealth."

Draco smirked smugly. "Yes, that tends to happen to average folk."

She managed to ignore his rather offending High-and-Mighty comment. Instead she turned her head towards him, looking straight into his molten pools of cloudy gray. Even now it sent shivers through every living nerve within her body.

"Mind telling me why you really asked me to stay? Or, actually, 'asked' would be too strong a word. 'Demanded' is more like it." Far be it in her nature, she was feeling unnaturally giddy and her heart seemed to melt down like a squat wax candle every time he looked at her with such seriousness. She'd never known he could be like this before, and it made her feel strange. It was like a completely different rush of adrenaline.

After the fear of doing something she completely wasn't ready for (sex) had slowly plummeted and, over time, gradually vanished, she had become comfortable with him again. He had even succeeded in kissing her again without her slapping him away and threatening to leave.

There was something different about him. Worse, it seemed to be actually sticking to him. Usually when there was a flash of possible change or shift in his emotions, it was gone before she could take a second to analyze what it could have been. But now she had nearly more than enough time to consider more than twenty potential conclusions.

He was concerned with her – that much was obvious. But the rest he had easily managed to hide inside that bullet-proof, lead chest he could somehow keep bolted and shut somewhere within his complex mind. He had a very tight grip on his emotions and it prevented her from reading any further. She knew this was because the shield he had put up had been an intentional sort of protection from anyone. Especially her.

"You think when you're alone, Granger. As in think too much, analyze, examine. Your brain will literally overheat and send you into a dangerous state of deliria if you continue to wreak havoc on your mind. It isn't healthy. And, plus, if you become hospitalized, I will have to plan all of the end-of-the-year activities with only the prefects, and you know very well I don't touch grounds with them. They're a very fidgety, irksome crowd. God knows what our Head of Houses were thinking when they chose the lot. Probably drunk well out of their knickers, if you ask me."

Draco felt pride swelling in the bosom of his chest. Very good answer. It was likely for him to say and very self-benefit, with a side of concern for someone else – in this case, Granger. He'd pat himself on the shoulder if he could. That is, without her noticing and assuming that he was a madman.

It was a typical answer from Draco Malfoy, and so if she was suspecting anything of him feeling irately possessive and selfish, as well as clingy, it would prove her wrong. He didn't want her to know or even suspect that he was terribly vulnerable when it came to her. The last thing he wanted was to be an open book, and the last thing he wanted was for her to know how much he did care for her – he did want her to know that he cared for her an extraordinary amount (thus the ring-giving), but not exactly how much (thus the lying). Think of the ridicule! No, it just couldn't happen. He wouldn't be able to live it down.

Meanwhile, Hermione was surprised by his reply because she'd been _expecting_ to be surprised with some monologue-type profession of everlasting love to her. All right, maybe not monologue-type, and certainly not everlasting love… but at least something that further proved to her that he was capable of actually saying exactly what he felt without acting like a prick, even if it was just a little bit.

Hermione then decided that it was impossible. Draco Malfoy probably had a whole script written out inside his haughty skull: Things To Say When Girlfriend Asks Question You Don't Want To Say The Truth To. It was utterly astounding. If only her brain was built with such a mechanism, then she'd be spewing believable lies all over and actually be getting away with the genius monstrosity.

She hated it that he was so well versed.

"I don't think about things _too _much," she snapped. "I think about them a normal amount, thank you very much."

"Right, and Weasley isn't poor," he snorted.

She glared at him. "Draco, can't you – just once – tell me what you really feel?" she suddenly asked him.

Draco's mouth fell open. It took a lot of willpower to keep from his eyes bulging out of their sockets.

Busted.

'_Damn it,'_ he cursed. '_Why do you have to be so damn clever?_'

"Granger, _what_ are you talking about?" he stammered, incredulous.

"I mean… I don't believe all that rubbish you just said."

"But it's true!" he exclaimed. "It's a _scientific_ fact! I thought you Muggles _loved_ those!"

"You really wanted to keep me in your room to keep me from thinking about things?" she snapped. "Then you might as well keep me in here for the rest of my sodding life – and, besides, it _isn't_ working! I'm _still_ thinking, you bint!"

"Why are you constantly finding ways to get angry with me and spitting out insulting names?" he asked her, also irritated. "I give you my ring, insist you stay here so I could spend more time with you, swear off anything sex-related—"

Hermione's eyes widened. There it was. There it bloody was. He finally said it – so he _wasn't_ just a high-tech cyborg imitating the human life of a rich, spoilt boy! Thrill overcame her anger. "So you asked me because you wanted to spend more _time_ with me?" she asked, one brunette brow inching up her forehead.

"No! I wanted you to sit on my silk-everything bed and fantasize about having sex with you – _of course_ I wanted to spend time with you, you basketcase! Now will you _stop_ trying to get into an argument with me and stop bloody trying to over-think things before I send _myself_ off to the loony bin?"

There was silence after his frustrated speech. Hermione was looking at him apologetically and guiltily while Draco wondered just what her problem was and what he had done to deserve her getting angry with him every five minutes.

It was true that tension was running high, but that had been more than an hour ago.

"You're right. I'm sorry." She sighed, burying her face into her hands. "I don't know what's come over me. I suppose I'm still a bit frazzled with everything that happened today. I'm sorry, Draco. I keep thinking something else monumentally large and terrible's going to happen."

Draco was breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath. "You know, it isn't worth staying in here and getting into meaningless spats if it keeps bloody happening."

Hermione agreed, nodding her head. "I'm sorry. I don't know what it is. I can leave if you like."

He scowled at her. Had everything he had said to her this past hour gone in one ear and out the other? Or was she just not in the remembering or in the information-obtaining mood? "Granger, what would all that work and words be for if I forced you out now? I _bargained_ to keep you here. It'd be considered a waste of time and only that. And Malfoys never waste time. You're staying, and that's final."

Hermione smiled. "Then I suppose you can play your guitar for me now."

"Thanks, Granger, but no."

"But we had a deal! We _shook_ on it!"

"I was crossing my fingers."

"You _insufferable_ brute!" she huffed. She then crawled off of his bed and stood, straightening herself out.

"Where in the hell do you think you're doing?" he frostily asked her.

"I'm leaving. We had a deal, and if you're not going to keep your part of the bargain, then I see no point in staying." She turned on her heel and started for his door.

Draco's body shot up. "Granger! Damn it, fine, I'll play it for you, right now. Just — you touch that door, I will honestly bloody tackle you — _don't_ touch it, Granger!"

Hermione froze and turned around at his threat and command, crossing her arms and looking expectantly at him. She was tapping her finger on her elbow.

Draco sighed heavily in defeat as he combed his fingers through his blond hair.

"Come sit over here," he resignedly told her.

Hermione unhurriedly walked over to where he was sitting and sat down.

Draco gave her a look. "I still can't believe you're making me play for you," he grumbled as he got up and started to where Hermione had spotted his guitar.

"A deal is a deal, Draco Malfoy," she smugly told him, hiding the excitement she felt fluttering inside her chest. She never thought she'd see the day he'd play his guitar for her and only her. It made her feel exceptionally special. "With crossed fingers or not."

Draco then mumbled something under his breath that Hermione could not hear (she had a feeling his lack in volume was deliberate) as he picked up his dark mahogany guitar from its stand. It was standing right beside his towering wooden dresser. And watching him as he slid the dark strap across his shoulders, leisurely making his way over to her with his trusty guitar in his clutches made her heart trill like a giddy schoolgirl. She had to bite her lip to keep from smiling so big. He looked just like a Muggle rock star, except far better looking than those she had seen lip-synching on the telly. He was her own _personal_ rock star. That made Hermione want to squeal in gladness and thrill.

(Except she didn't, because then Draco would look at her as if she'd just lost her marbles, and she tried to avoid that as much as possible.)

"Are you going to sing for me?" she suddenly asked.

Draco froze. A look of disbelief then skittered across his face. "_What_?" he asked her.

"You know, sing for me," she said slowly. "Sing."

Draco scowled. "Playing guitar for you is one thing, Granger. Singing is another."

Her face fell. "What? Why?"

"Because Malfoys don't sing, all right?" he snapped at her. "They _never_ sing, not even when they're drunk. They may be bastards, but they have enough dignity not to go around like some trilling showgirl. _I don't sing_," he emphasized to her.

"Really?" she asked, disappointed. "Are you _positively_ sure? Not even for me?"

Draco let out a snort. "Nice try, Granger," he said. "But I don't sing for _anyone_."

Hermione sighed, seeing that this was a hopeless case. But at least she gave it a try, right? Maybe she could manage to get him silly drunk one day and prove him wrong! That would certainly be entertaining.

He sat down beside her, shifting a bit as he then lowered his hand down, taking off his shoe. He shook it, looking into it, and then took something out of it.

Hermione was looking at him, wanting to ask him what he was doing but was far too preoccupied in thinking how strange it was that he had taken his shoe off and was… shaking it? She supposed he got the message from her perplexed expression, however, because he spoke before she could verbally word her mystification.

"What?" he asked her, as if there was nothing wrong or peculiar about what he had just done. He held up to her what he had taken out from his shoe. "A pick. You usually need one of these when you play."

"Yes, I know that… but in your shoe?" she asked, laughing a bit from the oddness of it all. Who knew Draco Malfoy had such strange quirks? It _was_ rather charming, to think of it, but it was still a tad bit shocking.

He shrugged, putting his shoe back on. "Why not?" he said, nonchalant. "That way I have it everywhere I go – but don't go getting ideas," he then warned her, giving her a forewarning look. "This is the one time I'm playing this blasted thing for you, and then that is the end of it, all right? Malfoys _don't_ entertain. Another thing: you speak a word about this to anyone, anyone at all, even your pigeon" (she guessed he meant Guinevere, which was bizarre since she could not even speak anyway – he must be very uptight about his musical abilities), "the consequences for such an action are even far too dire to speak of. Are you listening to me, Granger? One word—"

"And the consequences are oh-so-dire," she said, rolling her eyes. "I know, Draco. Now, play."

Draco narrowed his eyes at her. "This is _strictly_ confidential. Between you and me. No one else. You tell one soul—"

"Excellent. Just play. Who could I _possibly_ tell, Draco?" she said, exasperated. "And it's not like they'd take _my_ word for it," she told him. "Now, go on before I get impatient and start throwing things at you and call you a disgrace to the world of music."

Draco sighed, giving her one last look, before adjusting his fingers on the strings on the protruding neck of the guitar. She could almost see the flesh of his fingers turn bone white as he issued pressure, pressing down hard with such ease. She heard the sound of his fingers sliding across the chords as she shifted on the bed, positioning herself so that she could watch him easily, biting her lip with a wide smile on her face.

His four fingers distributed to different parts of different strings, he then began to strum. It was a very soft strumming, one that made her heart flutter with every beat of melancholy sound. It then all came together into a soft harmony, a gliding, soft petal of meaningful melody as she watched his hand skillfully change chords and switch up the strumming patterns. But as he then started to deftly add the hum of singular-pitched tones into it, blending it into one note of complete talent and dreamlike feeling, she felt the sensation escalate.

As serene as it was, it fluidly carried the thread upon which her heart was hanging onto feebly, as well as every single nerve and motion within her still, attentive body. But it was not a sort of muted serene but a regal serene, one that demanded every ounce of one's attention and stole every emotional wire that one could possible have, tuning and tweaking it so that the very heart of the listener would ride upon every chord, every strum, every sound, every chorus. Its heavenly tune, its lovely, dreamy synchronization enraptured Hermione to an extent that all of the world could be falling into ruins around them and she would not notice.

Filling her ears and restricting the breaths flittering from her lungs and throat for fear that she would somehow disturb the divine flow of music, her eyes slowly trailed up from the works of his hands to his face. He was looking down at the guitar, but she could tell he was not focusing on the chords he was playing or the way his wrist moved along to the music to produce a reciprocating, beautiful sound as it brushed against the six reverberating strings. He could play it with his eyes closed – that much was obvious. But his expression further elaborated that single minor detail. He looked as if he was playing his heart out.

Her mind was dumbfounded. How could anyone play something so pure, so wonderful, and so beautiful? How could anyone be so talented and be so eager on hiding it from the world?

Her heart froze in one steady beat as he suddenly raised his gaze, locking eyes with her. Hermione then felt something in her abdomen, something like a flutter of butterflies mixed with an unmistakable wave of affection overtake her wafting thoughts. A bubble of clarity and realization burst deep within her, flooding her mind and everything else with frighteningly new and unearthed thoughts.

She should have been frightened. She should have been afraid to face such a new reality. But it was as if she had known all this time, deep inside her subconscious, had known and had given up trying to reject it ages ago. She could easily accept it, and as odd as it was, she couldn't seem to find one single complaint about it. Her heart was not protesting, not thrashing about in a violent opposition – but was instead dancing and singing in her glorious new grasp and understanding. It was growing against her bones, pounding, but not painfully. There was an overwhelming fire she felt, waltzing and licking her lungs, affecting her breathing even more. In a single split-second, she had known. And in that single split-second, she could not breathe.

Was she happy? Overjoyed? Confused? No, that could not be. Clarity and confusion did not mix. She just could not explain it. She didn't think it could even be described in any word in any language. It was one of those things, she knew, that was not meant to be described by the human tongue, as its sacredness and purity was far too incomprehensible for any and every mind. It was not meant to be spoken about, not meant to be examined – it was meant to be felt, and only that. It was meant to be felt and embraced, and not even the most curious man could muster up a question that could not be drifted away by such a mesmerizing, pulsing emotion.

She'd tried to imagine how it would feel, long ago. She'd tried to imagine the coursing of ecstatic blood through the veins, the sudden jubilation of the soul to have finally achieved such a feat so pure and holy – but none of it, nothing in those books she had read, the movies she had watched, those declarations she had heard, could compare to the real thing. It couldn't even come close. There was no contest at all.

It was a strange thing to be realizing this right now, right at this moment, so quickly and so true, but as she continued to look into his eyes and not being able to find the will or courage to look away and break their connection, she had a feeling deep inside her gut that it was there inside him, too. That pulsing, that flickering tea light of a detail that would twist the ways of the mind and soul. She only wondered if it would take him as long as it did her.

His last note floated seamlessly in the air between them as Hermione barely noticed that he had ended his first song. Even Draco himself didn't seem to notice as they succumbed into complete silence.

Draco saw that look into her eyes: that sudden glossy sheen that had also seemed to flow inside him, as if they were indeed somehow, some way connected. His hands had continued to play even though his mind had been swallowed up by a feeling so deep in his chest that he wasn't even certain if it was in his chest anymore. More like… in his soul, if he happened to have one, by some chance. Her gaze was so pure, so innocent, yet so strong and felt and meaningful that even his own seemed to want to cower away to inspect his feet, to examine the positions of his fingers on his guitar, to look at the emerald silk underneath the dark material of his trousers. But he didn't. There was just something inside them, something so indecipherable yet so strong, something that he wanted so badly to understand – yet it was welling up inside him, as well.

He wanted to ask her what it was, what it was about her eyes, what it was that she was feeling, anything to clear up the haze that had started to form inside his mind that intoxicated every living nerve, muscle, and thought into only trying to figure out why it was that she was looking at him that way.

His stomach felt odd. Not particularly queasy, but weak in a different way. There was a tightening in the back of his throat, a dryness inside his mouth. A loss of words inside his head. A desire to suddenly tell her everything, kiss her like he never needed another breath to live, hold her like he never needed anything else, inhale her very essence like she was a whiff of heaven straight from God himself, love her… like it was the only thing he ever needed to live on.

But… love? Was that what this was? Did he _love_ her? Was that even possible? Hadn't Lucius installed some anti-loving device inside him when he had been first born – as every Malfoy had done so to every newborn in the past? He was certain that had been the case! He _couldn't_ love, no, it was just impossible. Not this sort of love. Never this sort of love. It'd be like self-intentioned murder: suicide. It was just not done.

Besides, if he loved her, wouldn't he have known? Wouldn't he have known the instant he had _started_ loving her? If he loved her, wouldn't he have had to disable the anti-loving device Lucius had installed in his body? But he hadn't, at least, not yet!

When one loved someone, wouldn't they have to be ready? Wouldn't they have to have thought about it, knowing what such an act meant down to the very core? Yes, that was it! But Draco hadn't even thought about loving her at all, nor had he ever pondered on how it felt to love someone! He didn't even know what loving someone meant! He didn't even understand it! He didn't _know_ the word!

_Love_? What was it? He didn't know! He couldn't _feel_, remember?

But, what was it, then? That feeling she gave him? That swelling, bursting feeling unfathomable to his mind but anchored to the weight of his soul? Was it merely affection? Or, perhaps, a different version of caring? An _extended_ branch of caring?

But he didn't have enough time to think. He hadn't even had enough time to start his second song, as she had made him promise. Because in a single flicker of a second of time, she had leaned in and closed the distance between their faces. And kissed him.

* * *

**A/N:** Hm. Always a good sign when one ends a chapter with a mention of kissing? We shall see! Any thoughts on what's in store for the both of them? Please review and tell me what's on your mind! NEXT CHAPTER: SO MIND-BLOWING I GUARANTEE YOUR HEAD WILL SPIN! 

**Thanks to: **Miss-Be-Haven, xOxOkIsSmYaSsXoXo, dramionerox, MistressMaliceMalfoy, Yamato's Tiger Lily, Rembrandt, silvertiger12, dracoslassy, Bella Starr, Goodybad, F-chan1, seaweedqueen, sammygurl262316, khuu-khuu, RedWitch1, **Ptrst (not a fluff fan? How can that be?)**, Sayaku-chan, Shy-Lil-Dreamer, PurpleXPrincess, **roleena kashka (wow! Thanks!**), Red Satin and Black Silk, Lilia-Lavender, EquestrianBabe, Kairivoosh (thank you!), **Blonde Cecile (I'm sure I'll read HPB, just not now – and I do get the feeling I do ramble excessively in my stories as well, so I totally understand)**, curlyqntx, I S2 Gaara-kun, AttackingHentaiChibisLoveFluff, guyswhattheheck, london218, natyslacks, Sunflower18, AmuberuMukku, dancrchick, Know-it-all, Hermione Charlotte Granger, KawaiiRyu, Iluv-Siri-Boy, Hajnal (yes, I admit – I got carried away), Kitchel, and prin69! Thanks!


	35. The Wrath of Severus Snape

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: I hate to say that I will never own Harry Potter even if I lied about it. All I would get is a million-dollar lawsuit smacked to my face. So, to clear up any confusion: No, I still don't own any bit of HP.

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A long, **eventful** chapter begins! I tell you this with bouncing excitement: this is one of the most important chapters yet! This one ends with a doozy, and some of you might be confused, but just keep tuning in and it'll all get cleared up, I promise.

I know you've all probably noticed the **sudden decrease in chapters** (this used to be chapter 46), but don't worry: I have just combined some of the chapters that I thought were too short to stand alone. I haven't added or taken anything out, although I have changed some of the chapter titles. I haven't gone through all of the chapters yet to change the numbers, so sorry for any confusion. But **everything is in the right place**.

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**The Wrath Of Severus Snape**

There was something warm against her.

Hermione let out a soft moan, yawning. She opened her eyes, trying to blink the sleepiness out of them, wriggling around. It was chilly but she could feel heat around her. A pool of silk sheets were entangled around her feet.

_'Silk… sheets?_' her mind echoed. '_But I've never had…_'

She froze. Her eyes were wide open, directed straight towards the window.

It was open by a small crack. Emerald curtains. Archer and Guinevere's cage. Expensive dark mahogany dresser with pure silver, serpent handles…

This was not her room. This was not her room at all.

Hermione silently gasped. She then looked down and hesitantly and shakily let out another breath of relief, feeling her head spin for a quick second. Her pulse was pounding. She was fully dressed, thank God.

She looked around, trying to budge about in her position, but she discovered that the warmth she had felt emanating around her was from the fact that he was pressed up against her back and his arms were wrapped around her waist. They weren't wrapped too tightly, but enough so that she could not move around to her satisfaction.

Hermione looked down. By the looks of things, he was fully dressed as well. She saw the long sleeves of his Oxford shirt crumpled against his colorless forearms.

She was then able to relax, closing her eyes again and sighing. A look of bliss and utter contentment slowly occupied her face, her lips stretching into a pleased smile. Feeling the peals of giggles and giddiness prancing around in her chest, she slowly calmed her breathing back into its normal pattern. She dug her head into his soft pillow, and as she did so, her nose was pervaded with – yet again – his scent. His wonderful, wonderful scent. It only made an even sillier smile spread across the plains of her face.

She relished the feeling of him holding her. She could feel his warm, tickling breaths kiss the top of her head; the steady and subtle rise of his chest against her back. His hands were encircled so softly yet so firmly and resolutely around her stomach. And as she moved her hands up to where he held her, gently laying them upon his, delicately feeling his radiating heat and gentle pulse against her palms, she felt her heart croon and her stomach perform a pivotal somersault.

She brushed her fingers against his, savoring the feel of his smooth skin underneath hers. She then raised one of her hands to her neck, finding the silver chain. She slid two of her fingers across it, her index and her thumb, eventually finding the ring he had given her last night. She fingered it, studying the currently warm silver, the skillful engravings, the outline of the serpent across the top of the ring. As she explored it, she also discovered the markings of a second serpent encircling the band.

It was hard to believe he had given her his ring. She remembered gazing upon it once or twice, catching the winks of light and shine it had constantly sent her way in class. It was distracting. It was a constant reminder to her that he was – in fact – a member of Slytherin House, if not the most famous and influential. It had even become a part of him: a part of his image, a part of his day-to-day life. And he had given it to her. To her, Hermione Granger, the pin-up girl for Slytherin's Most Unworthy and Filthy Mudbloods calendar.

It was just surprising, that's all. She would have never accepted it – to do so would've been wrong. But he'd left her no choice. He'd wanted her to have it, would have even begged if his pride had been absent for those few seconds. She didn't even want it… yet as she clutched it in her hand, almost feeling it pulse in the midst of her enclosed palm and fist, it relieved her. It relieved her overworked mind, her over-determined conscience, her over-sensitive yet overbearing heart. It reminded her of a certain release, a certain wave of fresh perspective and outlook to be able to see out and find the good in everything, even if it was knotted in the very inseams. It made her feel different: special. Yes, it made her feel special.

But it was a different sort of special. It was a heart filling, light brightening, chest puffing, mind reeling, hope reviving special. It made her feel happy – truly happy. It made her feel as if she had finally found what she had been looking for her entire inexorable life: a deep, glorious satisfaction and jubilation, heart-bursting and I'm-so-happy-I-feel-like-shouting-and-dancing-until-I-can't-any-longer. It made her feel as if a cheery and ridiculous testimonial grin would forever be plastered onto her face.

There was a fluttering inside her chest, a buzzing inside her veins. She felt very lightheaded. She supposed she wasn't used to being this happy all at once and it was causing a few side affects.

Inside her closed eyelids, the darkness was swirling. Her world was tilting, a vortex circling and imploring the shade.

_Love_. Her brain fingered the word.

To look at love objectively was to stick fresh meat all over one's body and stand in the midst of a pack of starving, vicious hyenas. It was a self-intentioned hurt. Suicide, in simpler terms. Was love for everyone? Could anyone handle love? Could _she_ handle love? After all, her life was all based on a cemented, concreted, embedded schedule. Studying hours, extracurricular activities, exams, prepping. She had it all worked out in her mind. There was a moment-by-moment, play-by-play agenda, a meticulous list and handiwork. Her life was organized into thorough categories. Nothing couldn't be fixed. Everything was neat once she worked it out in her mentality.

But love wasn't. She couldn't work it out in her mentality – in love, she had no mentality. It was all a vague, messy, formless blur and it made her feel agonizingly small and defenseless. Even a wand or any advanced spells couldn't help her from this. Not many things were meant to be random and solely made from spontaneity… like books. Books were neat, organized. Divided into Prologues, Epilogues, and chapters or Forewords. She'd based her whole life in books… but she couldn't live in books, nor could she live in a bubble from society and pain. She had to accept the chaos and disorder it would bring.

Love wasn't in her schedule. Yes, she had hoped for it, but she had never planned for it. She had been counting on its spontaneous, unexpected and random visit, but now that she looked back on it: love this year was completely and absolutely out of her plans. Their final N.E.W.T.s were coming up in June. And though she knew that sixth year was indeed harder than their present, final year, what with all of the readying of the material and setting out her goals, expectations, and ambitions – and not to mention she had had her Apparating test – this moment, this peaceful, beautiful moment was never in her plans. She hadn't looked to this year to find something good, something captivating, something like heaven in Draco Malfoy.

This was supposed to be her decisive year. Her year to straighten things out in her life, all of the knots and tangles, all of the loose ends. She was to be making all of the important life-altering choices this very year. Was love one of them? Was standing still and bearing it, molding into it, letting it build her up and then break her and then build her up again, _it_? She was at a crossroad, one that she never thought she would ever see lain before her feet.

To let love or run away? To love with abandon or twist free and escape the gripping clutches of such an emotion? It was enough to confuse anyone. Love was always very vague and secretive: either there was something hiding behind the door, or there was not. Either it was what-you-see-is-what-you-get, or it was not. Either it was what you were looking for, what you were finally waiting for… or not.

But the truth was: Hermione knew. She was not confused. She was frightened, yes, because she didn't know the affect it would have on her or her meticulous, careful life, but she was not going to dodge the subject or hide it beneath layers and layers of denial and avoidance. She was not going to be a coward and run away because there was a chance it would completely unravel her perfectly woven life and agenda. She was going to be strong. She was so certain, so definitive in her answer that she felt her heart bashing against her ribs along to the beat of the words.

'_I love him,_' she told herself. _'I love him. I love him.'_

It was strange to say it in her mind. She had never loved anyone this way before. Love was always too strong a word. But now… it was not. Good heavens, it was not. The word came so easily now; it was almost scary.

She slowly noticed a beam of dull light that escaped from the shroud of the emerald fabric of the curtains. It was lined up against the floor, slashing a milky yet weak beam across his carpet.

A thought abruptly flashed in her mind, her eyes opening and enlarging.

"What time is it?" she suddenly asked, panicking. She started to move around, trying to kick off the silk covers tangled with her ankles, hearing the gentle and smooth "swish" as her feet swiped against the cool material. She grasped at Draco's arms, trying to pry them off of her.

Awakened by Hermione's aggressive and frenetic movements, Draco began to crankily moan, not happy to be disturbed from his pleasant slumber.

"Bloody hell, Granger," he croaked groggily. His voice was hoarse and rough. Hermione was trying to still attempting to twist out of Draco's limbs, but he only held her tighter. "Would you bloody _stop_ moving?"

"Draco, can you please let me go?" she whispered.

Draco groaned in protest and didn't let her go.

"Let me go! Right this instant! I don't know what time it is, or what day it is — our _classes_! Breakfast! I still need to change!" She started to progress into the second stage of fretting, trying her hardest to remember what day it was and also trying to bend her neck around to see if Draco had a clock nearby. Her face was panicked, her big brown eyes worried. "Oh no, I can't believe I fell asleep _here_ with _you_—"

"Would you keep your knickers on?" he growled irritably. Hermione flushed a faint shade of pink, freezing in his arms. "It's Saturday. The weekend. You're _not_ missing out on anything. So either you shut up and stay still or go back to sleep and let _me_ sleep."

Hermione sighed, relieved and calmed, feeling the butterflies in her stomach flutter even more violently as he tightened his grip around her, moving her closer to his warm body. She could feel him leaning his head against her neck, his soft intakes and outtakes of air sending lovely tingles to scurry throughout her whole body. And the small detail that she was rather sensitive there made it all the more breathtaking.

She tugged on his arms again.

"What? What is it?" he snapped at her, annoyed. She could feel his sighs of breaths brushing against her as he did this. "Would you just stay still so I could get some more decent sleep? You're bloody flopping around like a fish on dry land."

It then occurred to Hermione that Draco was definitely not a morning person.

"Am _not_," she said back. "Just unwrap your arms around me so I can get out. You can get some more decent sleep once I get out." She forgot to mention how divinely lovely it was that he was holding her. She figured that he already knew.

He grumbled something incoherently and something that she couldn't quite make out, but she had a strong feeling it was a complaint.

She smiled, seeing that he didn't want to let her go. It was so sweet and charming that she wondered if this was really Draco and not some alien whose soul had been projected into his body while they were asleep.

"I've just got to take a peek outside," she quietly told him.

"And just why in Merlin's name do you have to do that? No, as far as I can tell, meteors or fireballs are not raining down on the earth – the end of the world has not yet come this morning, Granger. You're safe. So just be quiet – in fact, here's something you can do, since you like thinking so much: contemplate about how stilted life is. There. And what Snape would look like with pink pigtails and a cocktail dress. Enlighten yourself. Put that imagination to use."

"Look, Draco, as…" She couldn't quite find the right word. "… splendid as it is here—"

"Smashing, I agree. So just stuff it."

Hermione let out a frustrated sigh. "At least let me go to the loo to freshen up. I'll come right back, I promise."

Draco scoffed to his best ability while still one-thirds asleep. "What are promises when it comes to Gryffindors?"

"Either you let me go or we can do this the painful way."

"Oooh, Hermione Granger, I didn't know you could be so naughty."

"Draco, I swear—" She then noticed that he had finally loosened his arms around her, grumbling inaudibly. Sighing again, she untangled herself from him and got off the bed, straightening out her skirt and blouse, all of which were marred with irreparable deep wrinkles. As she stood, she saw the pile of their shoes.

Not wanting him to see how she looked in the morning and at the same time trying to tame her hair, she told him that she'd be back in a second without turning around and bolted for the door.

She made a clear cut for her bedroom, grabbing her toothbrush and towel before making for the bathroom. There she brushed her teeth thoroughly (the only way to do it, really) and washed her face with freezing cold water to make sure she was awake and not just dreaming. And, as she shivered and let the sharp tingles creep throughout her body, she looked up to see that she was, indeed, already awake.

The water poured down her face, slipping past her lips and dripping down her chin. She was crouching over the sink and she could see that her chain and the ring had slipped past her collar and was now leaning towards the mirror, winking at her. It gleamed provocatively in the light.

When she was done, feeling minty and refreshed, she put her stuff back in her room and then started for his bedroom again, consciously smoothing down her garments.

She froze when she came upon the portrait. It was smirking at her and only blinking one eye.

Baffled, Hermione hadn't thought to ask for the password. "I…uh…"

The portrait nodded. "Go on ahead, dear. It's open."

Hermione's eyes widened, surprised for a moment. Then she reached for his doorknob, the metal cold against her palms, and turned it, only to hear a "click" of release. It was open, just like the portrait had said. With one last wink from the woman, Hermione stepped back into his room, firmly shutting it behind her.

Draco was awake now. He was looking at her beneath his blond hair, his hands folded on his stomach.

Hermione smiled, as it was uncanny to her how someone could look so good, even in the mornings. He was not a terrible bed head – his hair was quite tousled, yes, but it only made him look better. She then realized quite timely that nothing could make Draco Malfoy look bad.

Which, of course, wasn't fair at all.

"Granger," he drawled. His voice was no longer hoarse, but silky and enticing. "Back for the harvest?"

"I'm just going to take a peek out your window, if you don't mind." Hermione walked towards his window, hearing the quiet rustle of his elegant green curtains as she pushed it aside to get a look out on the grounds.

"What do you need, a weather report?"

She ignored his remark, however, as she finally set her eyes on the Hogwarts terrain. There was a soft breeze that faintly shook the trees, but the grass was a lush and wealthy emerald. The skies were clear, albeit the slight gray of the chilly morning. She grinned happily, grateful for such a stunning morning and forecast. If only every morning was like this.

After admiring the view, she drew it closed as she headed back to Draco's bed, where he was still watching her. She lay down next to him, slipping her socks underneath the sheets. The white cotton peeked out from the sea of deep green.

"So, is that some sort of mental illness?"

Hermione scrunched up her face, looking up at his ceiling. "_What_?"

"Looking out the window every morning. Or are you really waiting for the end of the world? Because, I've got to admit, that is somewhat… morbid. I never saw you as the type."

"No, I'm not waiting for the end of the world. Why?" she turned her head to look at him. "Don't you look out your window? Or are you too busy kissing your reflection in the mirror to take one second to appreciate the world we live in?"

Draco smiled. He let out a quiet chuckle. "Surprisingly, I spend more time trying not to think of the end of the world than waiting for it." There was a sudden cloudiness inside his eyes.

She studied the fine delineate of his features from the side. His posh nose, his smooth ivory skin, his fine and extraordinarily silver hair. His eyes were the only color amongst the paleness of his face, and even then there were times when his eyes lacked it. Color. Sometimes they looked dull, tired, as if he was only going through life because it was mandatory to do so. As if he _was_ waiting for death, or the end of the world. She found it amusing that he was telling her now that she was wrong about him.

"Oh?" She quirked a brow at him. "Careful, Draco. Expose one more sunny thought and you'll shatter your whole brooding, mysterious exterior."

He snorted. "That's amusing, Granger."

Hermione was quiet for a moment, simply looking at him. And as she did so, she couldn't help but feel that overwhelming wave of love throbbing inside her again, drowning her in its sweet, syrupy waters. "I suppose that's why people tell you to live in the moment," she softly said, "because you never know when it's going to come, especially if you refuse to think about it."

"Right. But that only serves purpose for those who actually know they're going to do something with their lives."

Hermione's eyes flashed with curiosity and a deep, heartfelt concern. "And that's not you?"

Draco let out a silent breath, thinking deeply about whether he should tell her the truth. His throat got rapidly dry as he contemplated further on the subject. Why couldn't he tell her? Even if he could only give her a vague slice of it, then he should. She deserved to know.

"Let's just say I've got my whole future mapped out on some evil blueprint, and it's not pretty."

He swallowed hard, feeling his heart pound inside his chest. He could feel it reverberating through his limbs, his fingers, his body, his skull. His mouth was dry, and suddenly, just like in all of those books he had read: he saw his future. He got a taste of it – a tart, sour, foul and acidic taste. One that burned the throat and mouth and scalded the tongue. He saw himself in that dark robe, risking his life for a cause he'd despised before. They had a plan, and they'd worked on it carefully and thoroughly because it was more than fragile and more than dangerous. They'd burned it onto the surface of his brain.

He'd thought about what would happen if they were caught. Pain was a given. He could even almost feel it breaking through his limbs and bones when he saw a flash of their torture. Death was a fuzzy, blurry feeling. He was uncertain how it would feel. But he imagined that overcoming, dark and cold feeling… and he had a feeling that after all of the Unforgivable spells they would have sent tackling to their bodies, death would even feel sort of warm. Snuggly, even. For pain, even the most agonizing and excruciating, was numbed by death. And as morose as it was, he was looking forward to it. Death was the high point of his life.

Slowly, Hermione sat up, looking at him.

Hermione didn't know what to say to his answer. He was being truthful, finally brutally honest, and she couldn't gather up the words to say something. She wanted to ask him why, what his future was going to be like – what he'd seen. Why wasn't it going to be pretty? What was he going to do that would wipe out any and every possibility of prettiness in his life?

Oh, and worse. Even in all of her confusion and concern, she had even managed to be selfish, for she was thinking in the back of her mind: was _she_ going to be in his future?

In the many depths of her demanding and circling thoughts, she had only now realized that he had turned his head was now looking at her. She focused in on the unclear expression on his face – calm but unyielding to any another emotion – and the way he was looking at her. She'd only seen him look at her this way once or twice. It was a strange, unexplainable and unfathomable look that shot straight at her beating heart. All of her thoughts and convictions were transformed into a hazy mist inside her skull, making thinking about anything at all unfeasible. She could only feel, not think. She wasn't used to this feeling, for it seemed as if she was always thinking.

But could something be so strong, so certain and headstrong that no amount of thinking was required? If she had thought it had been impossible before, then she was certainly disagreeing now.

All of a sudden, she felt like crying. Her lungs were contracting; her throat was sealing up. Her eyes began to burn and there was an ominous weight blinding them from inside out. She began to unconsciously bite her lip, her fist closed around the ring he had given her. It was cold inside her hand.

How could he say such a thing? How could he be so certain? How could he be so sure that his future was a doomed one? Had he completely run out of hope? Had he ever had hope in the first place? But how could he just lay there and look at her so passionately, so earnestly, and so meaningfully after what he had just said to her? How could her heart hurt and break for him so terribly?

Her throat was hoarse and hot. "Draco…" She didn't know what to say. She knew that if she asked why he would say such a thing he would only turn away and coil up in his haughty nature, fending off her question by shooting some cold and distant quip. She tried to swallow down the pulsing stone inside her throat. "I'm sure… we all have our choices," she whispered. "It's what we do with them that counts. Even when it seems there's a dead end, there's really—"

"A dead end," he finished. His mouth felt like an ever-growing pincushion. He couldn't stand the look in her eyes. They were glossy, compassionate and sad. No one had ever looked at him this way before, ever given him a look that made him ache both physically and emotionally. She looked as if she was about to cry again. He could hear her almost non-existent breaths that she was trying her very best to squeeze out of her lungs.

She shook her head. He could see her holding the ring he had slipped inside her chain. Her knuckles were turning white. "No. There are _no_ dead ends."

Draco snorted, even though it pained his lungs to do so. "Right, Granger. No dead ends. I'm not gullible, you know. I'm not stupid, either."

"But it's true," she insisted. "If you'd just stop acting like your cold, arrogant, I-know-everything-there-is-to-know self, then you'd realize it too."

She sounded defensive. She sounded hurt. She sounded upset. Her face was crumpled in her emotional defeat. He knew he did this to her, and the dull, tender beats within his lungs told him that he wasn't in a better state than she was.

"I mean, you go along thinking that you have to do what they tell you because you've no other choice… but you're wrong. You have all of the choices in the world, it's… it's just that they're not always handed to you on a silver platter. You've got to seek them out, search for them even if you know it's going to be painful. We're all offered a good outcome in life, but sometimes we just don't realize it and we're so busy thinking of everything else, what they'll think of us, what we're risking, how our future will be, who we'll have to fight… but it's there, and it just… it waits. A very long time. In front of you. Until… until you see it."

It hurt to breathe. Looking into his eyes and not knowing whether he would just push her away or actually take in what she had said with every painstaking word she could wring out was like torture. She suddenly felt cold. She was shivering. Her hands were burning; the ring was freezing. Her vision was now completely clouded over by her tears. All of the moisture had been dried out and there was a nasty aftertaste inside her mouth.

She couldn't think. She just suddenly wanted him to hold her, to clutch her and somehow just reassure her, even without words. She wanted this piercing, cancerous ache to dispatch from her chest and just go away. She wanted to feel his wide, sturdy and broad chest and his firm strong arms to swallow her whole and never let her go.

The feeling of him around her would vanquish her fears. It would only be temporary, but it was all she wanted.

A part of him wanted to believe her. A part of him did. A part of him was convinced she had just retold to him a fairytale he had spent his whole life not believing and trying not to believe for the sake of false hope. But the way she was so still and frozen, her whispery breaths so ragged and delicate to his ears, and the vulnerability in her shaky words made him want to maybe break away from his harsh personality and just, for once, say something nice. Say something nice and entirely true. No – lie to her. Convince her that he would be happy, that he was well aware he had a choice. That his choices weren't Death or Death. He wanted to lie to her. He wanted to lie to her to keep from breaking her heart. He needed the practice, right? He had to get used to it if he wanted to get away from Hogwarts burden-free. He had to get used to it if he wanted to fulfill his orders.

But he couldn't. He couldn't lie to her, not now, not this time. All that escaped from his lips was a heavy sigh, and even that crippled his lungs. He wanted to turn away from her but he found that if he did he would only establish the acres between them that he had spent all night trying to rub away. But it hurt him to see her gazing at him like so. So expectant, so hopeful.

Until finally, when the silence between them had stretched into an eternity, she gradually and slowly laid down next to him, wrapping her arms around him. Her head was on his chest, his arms unhurriedly but firmly encircling around her delicate frame. His hands fisted against her clothes, closing his eyes and swallowing down hard.

Her bare knee was against his leg, and he could feel her gently tremble as he heard her sniffle. Her scent, her softness, her warmth… it made an unmistakable and excruciating tumor to form inside his chest. It formed a painful knot in his throat. Her fragrant smell made his eyes burn inside the distracted darkness of his eyelids and shrunk his lungs until he had to exert extra force and effort to breathe.

He couldn't deny how much it hurt. He wanted to say something to her, but he didn't know what there was to say. Maybe silence was the best thing. Just as long as they could stay this way.

And as the silence prolonged, so did they. He held her and she held him. And they stayed that way for a very long time.

oooo

Classes resumed on Monday. Schedules were the customary: classes, classes, and more classes. Exams were coming up in June, and professors were issuing prepping materials religiously.

Their peers were looking a bit more fidgety with every day that neared them closer to the end of term. Some looked frightened, some looked expectant, and some looked sad or even confused beyond anything else.

Hermione didn't know which category she belonged to. She felt her stomach churning with dread and sadness every time she found her thoughts wandering over to the subject, yet she was anticipating the end.

Leaving Hogwarts and her friends was going to be very hard and indeed a tearjerker, but it was inevitable. They couldn't stay in this place forever – even though it did seem vastly appealing at times. She, Harry, and Ron avoided talking about the end until June was officially here. Though she knew that all of them thought about it with an ache inside their hearts, she knew she wasn't ready to talk about it yet, either. Just the notion of not seeing them everyday and going to classes with them made her feel barren and upset. She loved them, and though she quarreled with Ron and had hated his guts more this year than ever – she couldn't imagine her years here without him. Goodness knows even he's saved her from her own doom more than once.

It seemed no one else was too keen on discussing their leaving Hogwarts, either. It seemed so very final, and as she looked from each glum but falsely happy face at their table, she knew they hated the finality of it all. Not being students anymore? Not going to the Great Hall for meals or lounging in the common room? It was just too much to stomach all at once. They all needed a week or two to let it completely sink in, at least.

So they tried their best to carry on like their normal selves. They tried to keep their usual topics of Quidditch, evil Potions lessons, and everything else circulating around the table. They tried to be funnier. They tried to look happier. They tried anything to distract themselves from the fact that soon they would be waking up to new lives, to new walls, to new agendas.

Even Hermione found herself acting differently. Though she tried to hide it, she was just as frightened as everyone else.

They lingered around the topic of summer but never anywhere around "leaving Hogwarts." It was a touchy and sensitive subject everyone was not ready to physically face. And so they tried to carry on normally: she and Ron bickered over lessons and his manners, Harry and Ron discussed Quidditch with some of their bunkmates and Hermione and Ginny spent their time pitching ideas for articles for the next issue of the Hogwarts Harmonium.

Their Transfiguration classes had reached a grueling, difficult level for her peers – one that made them sweat and curse and snip at each other with no mercy. Some of them had even started to cry from the stress. Ron had started to swear about everything to everyone, Harry's face and attitude had become surprisingly fierce, Neville's eyes had begun to turn pink and glossy, and Hermione had finally reached a challenge. And Minerva McGonagall, leaning by her desk while keeping watch, had taken off her hat and had started to fan herself. They were all worried. They were two weeks behind on their lessons. They were supposed to be able to transfigure their peers by now, but they were still on larger mammals.

That served as a major dilemma.

Little did Hermione know, things were about to get much, much worse.

oooo

On Tuesday afternoon, Potions seemed nastier than ever. Severus Snape appeared as if he had suddenly grown too big for his britches and mercilessly barked at them like he was half deaf. He lectured them about their upcoming N.E.W.T.s with a sense of danger, making almost everyone budge about nervously in their seats. Even Ron had sunk down in his chair until only the top of his ginger head was visible.

The only ones who acted as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening was Draco (who remained his cool and self-satisfied self), and Crabbe and Goyle, who only acted so very nonchalant because they didn't even have one-third of a mind to know what Snape was actually talking about – that, and they actually didn't know any better.

Hermione wasn't exactly worried. She was confident in all of her schoolwork. As long as she stood by her test-prepping regimen she had concretely planned out several months ago, she was convinced she would ace it without breaking too much sweat. She was just concerned at the unpredictability of her current life. The distractions, the disturbances she might have that would throw her off of her schedule. Because she had a stirring feeling deep within her bowels that hinted to her she had spoken too soon and that bothered her more than anything else.

Oddly, there seemed to be more than the usual hostility radiating from their Potions professor today. She had noticed it when she had caught that extra-strength spiteful look he had sent her way – and she hadn't even raised her hand to answer a question or done anything that she knew infuriated him on a daily basis (like gain House points for Gryffindor). His lip had curled and his eyes had sent her what appeared to be The Ray of Death.

She didn't mind it at first. It was normal for Snape to have twisted knickers, and so she only shrugged it off and continued to take notes. But every time she glanced up – it happened again. He sent her a look of disgust, of revulsion, of a not-so-secret urge to somehow slip her a poisonous concoction inside her pumpkin juice. She was getting quite disturbed for she didn't know just what she had done to make him send her such mean looks, and so when she was certain no one was looking, keeping in mind that she was supposed to be very, very subtle, she looked over at Draco.

It appeared that he had detected Snape's escalating negativity and mean looks as well, for he had been looking at her too. His eyes only clarified a mix of pure confusion, which unfortunately didn't help her at all.

'_Maybe it's just that time of the month,'_ she amusedly thought to herself as she watched their professor elaborate on the topics they had covered the past year. _'Or maybe he's just trying to clue me in that he's planning to kill me.'_

When their dreaded Potions class had finally come to an end and her peers sluggishly unglued themselves from their chairs with a look of a slow death in their eyes, Hermione was relieved to get out of the drafty dungeon. Snape had been making her uncomfortable all afternoon. She had the right mind to not want to spare a minute dashing out of his classroom.

"Somebody – somebody, please kill me," groaned Ron as he pushed in his books inside his bag. "To put me out of my misery."

"Don't be ridiculous, Ron," said Hermione, speaking in a rushed undertone, trying to stuff all of her parchments and books inside her satchel. "If you would just study instead of making death pleas and wasting your time, maybe you'd have some confidence for a change."

"And if you would just start making death pleas instead of studying, maybe people would like you more," he retorted.

Hermione, in turn, glared at him. "I forget you have the mentality of a five-year-old."

But just as Ron was about to retaliate with something – Hermione knew – even more childish and immature, Snape's rumbling voice had crossed the class and boomed inside Hermione's ears, sending a threatening quake to tremble within her bones.

"Granger, we have important matters to discuss." His voice held a shard of urgency that was easily overshadowed by the harsh tone of his demand. "See me at my desk after class."

The class broke out into chatters, Hermione nervously looking around as she felt apprehension shooting darts of uneasiness through her body. Harry and Ron blankly looked at her for a moment before lapsing into a hushed conversation of alarm and concern.

"From the tone of his voice, it doesn't sound like he wants you to stay just so you could catch up and have some tea and biscuits," said Harry, his emerald eyes glazed with concern.

"Yeah, no kidding," snorted Ron. "What did you do this time? Did you answer too many questions in class again? Really, you've got to stop picking fights with the prick just because you think you're as smart as him. It bruises the ego."

She was nervous. She tried to tell herself that it was about nothing – just her academics (though maybe "nothing" was the wrong word to use in this context) – but that did not ease the turning of her stomach as it consistently twisted and coiled, making Hermione feel even more ill at ease and precautious. Tingles of prickling fear sped up her skin and clustered up at the base of her throat, flashes of possibilities of what he possibly wanted to talk to her about – alone – flickering forebodingly inside her tension-filled mind.

She felt ridiculous feeling afraid. He was a professor. There was nothing he could do to her. Except fail her. But that was beside the point. Maybe he was just going to present her with a new challenge (maybe to finish her N.E.W.T.s in record time, which greatly excited her) or pass along a message from Albus Dumbledore.

She was not afraid.

Because even if he did somehow kill her, Harry and Ron would certainly avenge her. Draco as well. They would not rest until they saw justice, because Hermione would not let them – she would become a ghost and haunt them incessantly.

Harry and Ron's conversation trailed on indistinctly in her ears as she plunged herself headfirst in her assumptions and worries, not to mention her confidence boosters that told her that even if Snape did make to kill her, she was prepared. She would blast that hair of grease from his head. Maybe even his hooked nose too, if her aim was just right.

"Hermione? You haven't died on us yet, have you? Because we need you now more than ever for our exams."

That was Ron.

She mentally shook her thoughts of trepidation away as she let her gaze zero in to her two friends, but it lingered on the surface and beneath her skin like traces of mildew and cobweb. She hastily looked around, watching as the rest of the students were filing out of the Potions classroom. She noticed some had sent her suspicious looks, some of the Gryffindors gave her worried glances, and the Slytherins shot her an evil smirk, nodding, as if they knew for a fact something terrible was going to happen to her and were already rejoicing in their fortunate luck.

"I'll be certain to let you know when I have," said Hermione rather absentmindedly. She noted the look Harry was giving her. "I'll be fine. You two head on to your dormitories. As for the exams: tough luck because we're all on our own on this one. The tests are all different and they've just advanced their anti-cheating materials." It amazed Hermione that she could say all of that without even paying attention to what was coming out from her mouth.

"Now, go on. The longer you stay, the more he's likely to give me hell," she said, trying to shoo them out.

"Be careful, Hermione," Harry told her quietly, glimpsing at Snape, who appeared to be watching them with distaste, as they had become accustomed to.

"Whatever you say," said Ron, shrugging but also giving her a worried look as he tugged Harry along with him, saying, "C'mon, mate, she's going to be fine, you heard the girl…."

She sighed, letting out a great breath of air as she leaned on her table, watching as the two boys exited the class.

Draco slowly strolled by, and they shared a meaningful glance that went as fast as it came. She felt her heart's rhythm start to speed up as he locked eyes with her, his deep mercury orbs trying to reassure her that everything was going to be just fine and that Snape only talked the talk and only limped through the walk. It only comforted Hermione slightly, but her shoulders were still stiff with wariness and her muscles were taut with a caginess that just would not leave her be.

When the noise fled from the dungeon and echoed from down the hall, swallowing down hard to the best of her ability, she walked down to the front of the class where he waited. She gripped her book bag so tightly that she could feel the leather strap slicing into her palm.

She stood stick-straight in front of his desk. Trying to be confident and headstrong and make it seem as if she wasn't scared at all, she looked him in the eye. But, to her surprise, she only saw her reflection staring back at her from the absolute darkness of them. They were murky and swamp-like, sending creeps of dread to ripple through her veins.

He had a calm – albeit sour – expression on his face. Hermione was astonished to see this. She had expected him to be glowering at her like she was the bodily discharge of a Hippogriff at the bottom of his shoe. The Weed Remover to his dandelion. The Raid to his cockroach. The Britney to his Christina. The whole day he had been doing so, and she had only figured that when they were alone it would only be intensified.

Apparently, she was wrong.

Somehow, that scared her even more.

"Miss Granger," he drawled slowly, taking his time. "I do believe we have one thing in common. It was utmost surprising to me when I discovered it to be true, but a teenage boy's mind is at its most stubborn when it has gotten… attached to something." Just then, something flickered in the deep blackness of his eyes, like a bright and silver flare of lightning. His wand in his hand then suddenly lunged out at her, snagging onto Hermione's necklace and jerking her body to lean towards his desk.

She let out a yelp of shock as she was suddenly forced to bow down above his table, the silver chain she was wearing abruptly cutting into the sensitive flesh of her neck, sending bites of pain to dash through her skin.

Recovering from her surprise, she looked down at what was now displayed before the both of them, glinting and flashing like a diamond sending a scatter of rainbow lights through its many precision-cut dimensions. Her eyes widened and the blood-pumping organ that had once resided inside her chest was now jumping up her throat.

She could see the engraved serpents. There were three of them. The green tinting of the Slytherin shield background, the cut of the ruby of the snake's eyes inside the armor that shone like crystallized blood. She could feel the necklace burning into her skin, and she wanted to snatch it away and run away from this place as fast as her currently unstable legs could possibly take her, but it was as if her brain's ability to send quick messages to the rest of her body to make mobility possible had somehow been botched and then shut down, leaving her helplessly alone.

What Snape had done and the swiftness of it had left her stunned for more time than she would have liked. Her revolving shock was like a fist that kept coming at her, punching, hitting the breath out of her two sacks of oxygen-gathering organs again and again, never hesitating and never giving her even just half a second rest. It kept coming, and the blows only kept getting harder and more painful.

She had spent all of her time trying to convince herself that she was prepared, that nothing bad was going to happen. It never occurred to her that she would turn out to be so wrong that she actually wanted to somehow bestow some physical damage to herself. Though, finally gathering her wits and her gaze flickering up to see Snape's expression of pure shock (she couldn't blame him – the feeling was mutual) and rage, she found it very easily to gather all of that self-blame that was now violently rioting inside her brain and point it towards his direction.

His, and Draco's.

_Draco_ had been the one who forced her to wear the stupid thing in the first place! She hadn't even _wanted_ to! Why was it that he was always succeeding in forcing her down the bloody plank? She was going to give him absolute hell when she saw his pointy, conniving little face once she got out of here!

Her panic gradually got the hint and started to rush in so fast that it gave her a terrible head rush. It even made her nauseous, her head whirling around as if she was on a speeding carousel ride that would never end, and her body feeling as if she had just taken an elevator ride twenty times up and down without a rest. Her throat was as dry as muck but now she could feel a burning, hot and bile liquid inside her mouth.

Snape's eyes traveled back up to her face, flashing with spite. Hermione, somehow miraculously able to gather her wits, did, and furiously stole back her necklace, tucking it back into her shirt and looking at him with fire-shed eyes.

She was frightened still. More so now. But she thought, _'over my dead body would I let this nosy little bastard see it._' Because she knew fear only fueled the likes of men like him, and if anything, she wanted to do the complete opposite. She would not let him see her fear.

Besides, she could accuse him of sexual harassment if she wanted to.

His face was grave, his upper lip curling up like a shriveling worm. "So I see you and my student have delved into deeper affections for one another, am I correct?"

Hermione stuck out her chin, praying that he couldn't see or hear the vicious pounding just below her left collarbone. She clenched her hands, her freshly clipped fingernails feeling peculiarly sharper now than ever before.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She spoke in what she hoped to be a confident tone, one that no one could ever look through. But she had heard an unmistakable and obvious tremor that flustered her vocal chords and unveiled her fright to the man sitting before her with narrowed, slit-like eyes.

Suddenly the room was so quiet that it was deathly noisy. There was a ringing in her ears that caused her to grit her teeth until she felt shoots of tenderness aching inside her jaw, the loudness of the roaring guilt rattling even the very marrow residing inside her bones.

"Even you can't get yourself out of this hellhole, now, Granger," he sneered. "I should have seen it, I should. Young Malfoy searching for something that would excite him before he would turn his life over – it was inevitable. We all knew it was going to be happen." He then leaned closer to her, his eyes fierce and cutting. "I just didn't know it was going to be _you_," he spat.

Hermione was as still as stone. Her breaths had become hard but restricted and shallow, coming out ragged and stiff. She felt as if she had just been paralyzed with his words alone, like he was the spider and she was the fly, yet he had pricked a thick, corrosive bubble of anger that had submerged from the back of her throat.

"I didn't know my student could settle for someone so lowly when he could get anyone he could ever possibly want." He was smirking. Smirking like it made his day to ruin hers, like it brought him absolute joy to break her heart. Like he loved it like nothing else to make her want to punch his face in.

"Shut up," exploded Hermione, her fists shaking at her side and her toiling anger getting the best of her. "You shut up. You don't know anything. Take that back." She was talking through gritted teeth, afraid that if she started to yell she would unleash something fierce – that she would lose control and make it all worse.

By hexing him.

"On the contrary, Granger," he hissed. "I know more than you think."

"You liar," she seethed. "You're lying."

Then he started to laugh. It was a deep, dry laugh that cracked from the rusty depths of his throat. One full of malicious purpose and wickedness, of pride in his evil knowing. It struck her hard, like a strong blizzard that ripped through her skin, threatening to shake her frame.

"He disappears three nights a week. Maybe more. What do you think he's doing? Teaching blind kids how to read? Playing house and sipping tea? You couldn't be so gullible, not even if you wanted to be."

"You don't know anything," she lashed out, her brain boiling over and causing her plans to be totally calm and collected to end up in flames. "You're only—"

"Just who did you think you were fooling?" he bellowed, suddenly standing up, his hands slamming down on the wood of his desk. "Because you should know, out of all people, you can't convince anyone else if you can't even convince yourselves. You can stop trying to tell yourself he's still even going to look at you after this. No amount of cleverness or affection is going to change him. His destiny is set, and _no one_, not even you, is going to steer him away from it, do you understand, Miss Granger?"

His voice was loud, boisterous, stern and commanding. It vibrated throughout every stitch of her clothes, every strand of hair. But she would not yield. Not to a despicable man who was telling her she could not be with the boy she loved. And she would be damned if she gave into his tactics of bullying and intimidation.

Hermione couldn't speak. She was too angry. She could feel the heat radiating from the top of her head, the steam shooting out of her ears, the irate spasms in her limbs. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to hex him. She wanted to make him eat his words from the dungeon floor. No extent of Muggle cartoons could emphasize her rage. She could feel it crackling through her fingers, zipping through her veins like a river of molten lava and ice combined, tensing her muscles until she could feel it swallowing her bones. She was shooting a beam of intense fury from her eyes that had transformed into the eyes of a madwoman.

"I don't want you to see my student on these terms again. You are forbidden to. _He_ is forbidden. Do so and the consequences, you will find, will be far from those you can even attempt to conjure up in your petty, little imagination."

"And what makes you think you can tell me what I can and cannot do?" she shouted, now unable to bite it back any longer. It rolled from her throat, from her tongue, from her lips like a violent gush of ire. Trying to keep it back, behind her jaws, underneath her ribs, had created an internal fire that tore into her very soul that was now howling with the tempest of hate and hurt. "What makes you think you have the power? What makes you think you can suddenly order me about like you can Draco?"

Snape froze. She could see very well he was startled by her remark, and she felt a lethal blend of pride blossom in the midst of her chest, pooling around her lungs and extending up to the hollow of her throat.

His eyes darkened like an oncoming storm. "Don't kid yourself," he snarled. "I am only doing this for your own good."

Hermione scoffed, incredulous. "My own _good_?" she repeated in disbelief.

"You'll only end up miserable and a twittering, heartbroken fool. You _know_ where his life leads," he roared. "You two are engaging in a reckless activity, shamelessly – that will do no good to _anyone_. Not to you, not to him, and most certainly not to your little friends. Don't make it difficult. You are only in the way. I am _not_ going to allow you to ruin Draco's life over a stupid fling, so I suggest you do what I say now. I will not have you wreck what we have been breaking our backs over since his birth. That is _unacceptable_. And if you don't carry it out, you'll find yourself quite in a situation that not even Hero-boy can save you from."

"I've been threatened before," she jeered, staring him right in the face with a temper that rivaled even his own. She was quivering with enmity, feeling her insides singe as if she had suddenly caught an exceptionally bad fever. "And you don't scare me one bit."

The vicious look firmed on his sallow face. He was sending her a glower that would have sent her off her feet were it on some other circumstance. But she stood her ground, steadfast and immovable.

She had a wild look in her eyes. The slow burn told on the severe lines on her face, her indignation towering over her fairly petite form. Severus Snape saw the difficulty in the young woman all too easily. She was bloodshed in battle all in itself. He knew then that it was time to take drastic measures. Her attachment to Draco was charming, it was, but it was giving him hell.

He took a mental note to tell Draco he had the worst taste in his end-of-the-year flings.

"Very well then," he said calmly. He straightened himself up and sat back down on his chair, giving her a look of promising pain. "You've made it clear to me that you are refusing to back down. But by the end of this week, mark my words, Granger, you will be on your knees."

oooo

Hermione chose not to tell Draco about her falling-out with his Head of House. She'd made up a lie instead – one of her academics, since it was most believable. She didn't want to tell him that his professor had just threatened her and had almost broken her neck by his discovery of Draco's ring around her neck. She didn't want to tell him that now Severus Snape knew, and that he had clearly promised her that something terrible was going to happen to her just because she stood so firmly in her love for Draco.

But she'd stared at herself in the mirror that night, biting her lip and letting out rickety and tremulous breaths, an incessant, stinging smart deep inside her that left her feeling helpless and without hope. It was hard to breathe when she thought about that afternoon. It was hard to think – it was so hard to even mull it over when she felt hate and animosity turning her skull into a boiling room or an out-of-control sauna.

She was frightened. She'd never thought it would ever come to this, but Severus Snape's looming, dark figure was now the one who dominated her nightmares. Sometimes he'd eat her whole, swallow her down and she'd slip down a gaping black tunnel full of cold hands and serpents – and she'd awake screaming, thrashing about, her throat dry, swollen and aching. Sometimes he'd steal Draco away from her and then she would be plunged into complete darkness, feeling iced over and scared to death, and that was when she would awake in tears.

On one evening, one particular evening that she'd woken up in a downpour of tears and terrible shivers, she'd been so distraught and upset that she'd actually emerged from her tangle of sheets, her skin sticky and warm, crossed the common room in barefoot, and knocked on his door. And she kept knocking until his door finally swung open to reveal an annoyed, tousle-haired and very cranky Draco.

"Granger," he growled, surprised but still cross. "It is _three_ in the morning – I highly doubt snogging this late in the night is what I consider enjoyable when I am sleep-deprived—"

But then she had thrown her arms around him and hugged him close, Draco going wide-eyed from surprise and the fact that she was only wearing a very thin and silky nightdress that did not bother to hide anything at all when it came to applying pressure and physical contact. He uncharacteristically blushed as he suddenly discovered that she was not wearing a bra.

She was shaking, he later realized, as he hesitantly held her close and led her into his room. Settling on the edge of his bed, they pulled back and Draco saw the shininess of her eyes, the sticky moisture trails down her cheeks. Her chestnut gaze was scarred with imperishable sadness and hurt and glazed over with fear. His sleepiness was suddenly drained away as his eyes flickered over her with concern and alarm.

"What is it?" Clever bloke that he was, he knew she would not come to him at three in the morning just because she suspected there was a monster underneath her bed or a boggart in her closet. Something had to be horribly wrong if she had come to him in a careless and gauzy nightgown without even bothering to put on a jumper.

She shook her head, her frizzy, bed-misshapen curls swaying along with her face. "Just tell me you won't leave, all right? Not until the school year's over."

Perplexity darted through his flawless features, but he nodded, unable to question the broken look set on her cheeks. "All right," he said, still quite confused at why she was making him say this. Why would he leave? Why was she crying? Had she had just a simple nightmare? "I'm not going to leave."

She sighed, and a quivering smile had stretched across her face, making something warm flood throughout his body. "Good," she whispered, as she suddenly yawned, her dark lashes fluttering at him.

And somehow, someway, she had stayed with him that night, curled up beside him. But as Draco watched her peacefully sleep, her face no longer creased in anguish or streaked with warm tears, his arms firmly wrapped around her and savoring the feel of her velvet skin against him, so soft and smooth incomparable to even the most expensive Japanese silk his mother had shipped over for her robes, he felt something stirring inside him.

A feeling. A deep, dark feeling that made a budding sadness begin to suffocate him. Like this was the last time he would be holding her like this for a very, very long time.

oooo

On Thursday night, Draco was summoned to his Head of House's private quarters again for their training sessions.

As he walked through the empty, torch-lit corridors, the eeriness of this certain night was echoed in his mind. Something bothered him about this evening. The sliver of the moon sliced into the sky, the menacing clouds that threatened to obscure it. The nippy breeze that was harsher than it was refreshing, the empty hollow sound of his footsteps on the marble. Or even the way the flames flickered so aggressively as he passed.

Draco had been a cold person from birth. People had even said that he had spent his nine months inside his mother's womb in a sack of pure ice water. But something about tonight, just something, sent chills up his spine. And he knew from his strange natural talent to withstand very cold things that it was something big.

When he reached Snape's room, the door had flung open before he could even fist his hand and get it into position to knock.

"Get in," he had snarled, before he had grabbed Draco by the collar and thrown him inside.

Draco stumbled in before he grabbed the ledge of his desk and straightened himself up, glaring. "What the hell was that for?" he snapped. "Despite what my mother told you, you can't just throw me around to your fancy, you know."

"Close your mouth and answer me truthfully," barked Snape, his face twisted into a very unpleasant demonstration of his foul mood. "Have you or have you not broken things off with Granger?"

Draco froze. He gripped the wooden edge with force, his heart beating furiously. "Who wants to know?" he jibed.

Snape looked as if he wanted to hit him. "Just answer the question, Draco. Don't make it difficult. You are only wasting time."

"No, I haven't broken things off with her," Draco lashed out; annoyed by his nosiness and the pressure he was applying on him to end things with his girlfriend. "Not that it's any of your sodding business. I don't care what my mother told you – you _cannot_ make me hurry this up—"

"Did she tell you what we talked about?" Snape said, cutting him off. "Did she tell you why I asked her to stay behind?" His tone was sardonic and not very sunny at all.

Draco raised one brow. "Yes. That you wanted to talk to her about her N.E.W.T.s and how you finally expressed the extent of your hatred for her by stabbing her in the back with a quill when she turned away. Why?"

"We don't have time for your jokes, Draco!" Snape yelled, making Draco take a step back in surprise. "You need to be serious. We don't have much time."

"Much time for what?" he inquired.

"Did she tell you, or what?" He then paused. A moment later, an evil smirk crept across his face, making him look like some madman that had just escaped from Azkaban using nothing but a metal spoon. "She didn't tell you, then."

Draco became defensive, narrowing his eyes at him. "Didn't tell me what?"

"What we discussed. Sit down, Draco. Make yourself comfortable." Draco only stiffened on his spot, his muscles tensing. "Fine. Suit yourself," Snape continued. "She lied to you, Draco. Do you ever think I would demand for her to stay behind after class just to talk about her coursework? My, my, my, I didn't know a Malfoy could be so gullible." He sat down on his leather armchair, looking at him. Draco's eyes never once strayed from his. "Then again, your father was Lucius. And he was the most dim-witted and vainglorious of the bunch."

Draco's jaw clamped down together, gritting his teeth. "Cut to the chase, Snape. No one likes to hear your pathetic idea of small talk."

He carried on as calm as a butterfly, and that made dread churn inside his stomach. "We weren't talking about her academics. We were talking about you." He stopped.

Draco's temper flared. "Would you get off it? I'm not here for dramatics, so you can stop with the long pauses. I've got plans."

"Well, cancel them," barked Snape. "Because unless you have another plan of breaking her little Gryffindor heart, then you're not going anywhere. I asked her what she was doing engaging in a hopeless activity with you. I asked her what she was hoping of accomplishing by ogling you. And do you know what she said?"

"What?" he hissed, impatient and becoming angry.

"Nothing." His smile got bigger, almost so that Draco could feel it growing against his bones. "Nothing. That was what she said. She's using you, Draco. She only agreed so that she could guarantee Harry Potter's safety out of Hogwarts. Isn't she a clever little Mudblood? Capturing the forever-cold Draco Malfoy's heart, stealing your affections, warming it up a bit with her sly tactics to get what she wants? I certainly applaud her. She's a gutsy thing."

Draco didn't want to believe him. He didn't want to. She wasn't like that at all. She cared about him, just like he cared for her. Maybe more. He'd seen it in her eyes. But as their conversation about Harry Potter and Voldemort flooded through his mind, remembering that day back at the library, he felt something cold and ruthless rush through him.

"_I just need some reassurance, that's all. And I just don't want to risk anything. I just want to know that… even though you might want Harry dead too, that if there was any possibility, any possibility at all, of something happening to him, that'd you come to me and tell me."_

_"Even if your hate for Harry runs deeper than I could ever imagine, he's still one of my best friends, and if his safety was endangered, or anyone else's… you'd tell me, right?"_

He stiffened. He felt his rage course through him, trails of heat fluidly flowing through his frosted skeleton like molten lava. He felt his nails biting into the delicate casing of his palm.

His face was written with every inch of doubt and skepticism he felt thrumming inside his nerves. "And why should I believe you?" he said, suddenly feeling the strong urge to yell at him until his hooked nose flew off and splattered against the wall.

Snape knew from the blaze inside of his eyes and the tightened tendons on his face that he had touched the right nerve.

"Why shouldn't I think that you aren't just lying? Hermione _cares_ about me. She'd _never_ lie to me. She'd never do it. She's _not_ a liar."

"And how would you know?" Snape hissed. "How would you know what she is and what she isn't? You snog her for a few months and suddenly you know everything about her? Use your head, Draco." Disgust simmered on his poisonous tongue. "She's a _Gryffindor_. She's Potter's best friend. Surely you don't think that'd change all because of a stupid fling?"

"It isn't a _stupid fling_," he fumed, that idea of screaming at him until one of his facial features had detached itself from his skin and soared off his face looking very, very appealing right about now. "And I wouldn't talk so tough if I were you. I bet a single woman hasn't touched you without running off to throw up."

Snape's eyes flashed, glinting dangerously. "Be careful, Draco. You're walking on very dangerous ground," he lowly warned him.

There was silence as Draco only looked at him. He was trying to imagine him with a bloodied face with his arms broken off.

He was smirking at him. A sadistic smile, one that tightened the hands constricting around his lungs and throat. One that almost made it so difficult for him to breathe.

"You're lying," Draco said, his voice wavering on the edge of his rage. "You're lying to me. My mother put you up to this, didn't she? Didn't she?" Draco suddenly yelled, wanting to grip the table and throw it over, feeling the logical side of his mind rapidly deteriorate with the commotion bubbling inside him.

"Don't be stupid," Snape bellowed, his voice shattering the whole room. "I thought you were smart. Or has she already blinded you with her words? With her innocence? Who would've thought you could be so naïve?" he chuckled; his laughs hollow and like a booming bass reverberating off the walls. He continued with words that pierced through the hard shell of Draco's heart.

"Where did you actually think it would land you? Did you expect that she would actually leave her friends, leave her life behind just to wait for you? Were you expecting a declaration of everlasting love?" he ridiculed. "Get your head out of those foolish fairytale books and come back to reality. It's the end of the year. She only wanted something to excite her, something reckless and daring and challenging." He laughed again. "Not something _serious_. She's really fooled you, boy. You're her fool now."

Draco was furious. He wanted to tackle the man before him and beat him to a bloody pulp, rip out all his limbs and tear out his scalp like a hot cake. He didn't believe him. Didn't want to. It was impossible. She wasn't like that at all. Hermione would never do that to him. She was pure and innocent and goodhearted. She would never lie to him. She would never use him. She was different. She wasn't capable of something so manipulative, something so conniving and wicked. No. She wasn't. She was a Gryffindor. She was Hermione. Granger. Stern and strict, annoying, but good and righteous. She wasn't like that at all—

Except she was. She was capable. She was clever; she was fierce. Draco even remembered thinking that she could kill him if she wanted to. But – no. She had settled for just using him.

"No!" His voice exploded through the leather-bound books, the tall, wooden bookshelves rattling. Books tore from their places and opened, ripping themselves apart, detonating, flames erupting from the core and showering the room with fiery embers, burning pages of ancient writings, the smell of fire everywhere. Leather smoke clouded the room, burning his eyes, stinging his lungs. Heat ignited from his fingertips, watching with hazy eyes as the whole room was hungrily consumed by the bright fire. A great blaze ruptured from the wooden floor, scorching the expensive rugs, devouring his furniture. He felt his skin boil and his body fill with conviction.

"No! You're lying!" He heard laughter again, cackles tearing into him, piercing into his flesh, grazing his soul. He heard blasts all around him, detonations of things he could not even see. He heard the blast of glasses blowing apart. "You're lying!"

Fire showered down on them like acid rain. Fire was leaking from the corners of the room, the ceiling, the narrow, high-rise windows. The windows shattered all at once, a vast hail of glass spraying onto the floor only to be eaten up. Something behind Draco combusted.

But he was untouched. The fire did not reach him. He could see Snape's dark eyes looking at him through the jungle of heat, the glow of orange and silver reflected inside his eyes like golden fireworks.

Suddenly, Draco fell to the ground. He let out a cry of pain as he felt something shoot through his body, something cruel and sharp, and he felt the twisting of his veins. He could feel the trickle of his sweat, the saltiness of his lips. He felt the splintering of his ribcage and his skull. He was breathing hard, but he felt as if it did not even make it past his lips. There was something wet on him. Something was pooling from the midst of his chest, something hot and mordant. The noise became earsplitting and deafening that he could feel it ricocheting through his blood.

Then, with a snap of Severus Snape's fingers, it was gone. The fire was rapidly extinguished, and the charred books and ashes descended down on them. The floor was destroyed. There was a yawning fracture down the middle that Draco had single-handedly split, the burnt, wooden planks tilting up towards the ceiling like a ruinous cliff. One of the bookshelves had collapsed and was now just a pile of rubble and sand.

He looked down on his student with grim satisfaction in his eyes, yet there was a tiny fragment of deep concern for him. He was still in his armchair as he watched the boy writhing on the ground in a growing pond of his own blood, his shirt now bathed in the thick crimson fluid. A precise circle of ash surrounded him, perfect and carved into the floor. He was moving in almost crippled motions, gasping pained and cut breaths of air.

A wry smile slithered across his face. "You've gotten stronger, Draco. Much stronger. You're almost ready. But you've still got much to learn." He then stood, walking over to his student, who was trembling violently as if he was having a seizure. He looked down on him through his nose. "Pack your things. We leave at midnight."

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**All right, so maybe it wasn't _completely_ head spinning, but REVIEW!**

**A/N:** Call me a sadist all you like, but I think that was the chapter I loved the most when it came to writing it. Some of the events there weren't exactly planned out and intentional – they just happened, and I daresay I love it terribly. **Manipulative, lying Snape!** Is he truly evil or is he really just doing it for their "own good"? I have to tell you now though: this is nothing like HBP. So think carefully!

**Thanks to: **FlameWriter008, jemmin2, Darkpixy, silvertiger12, lovedrher, queenofthelameos, Wingsofthefae, soccerpixie3000, RedWitch1, guyswhattheheck, spitfirecracker, Taffy-Isabelle-TaffCunns, **Christina (thank you!)**, EquestrianBabe, roelena kashka, sammygurl262316, Miss-Be-Haven, Panthino, KawaiiRyu, Lilia-Lavender, PurpleXPrincess, prin69, curlyqntx, queeneyZ, phoenixtamer150, Hermione Charlotte Granger, Rembrandt, blueskyshymoon08, xOxOkIsSmYaSsXoXo, jonquillejaune, dramionerox, Red Satin and Black Silk, moony's number 1, slytherin queen14, goldenraven, usako, malicious.female, Yoli128, Saija-chan, Pathatlon, Nikelodean, KatoPotato, AmuberuMukku, Elemental Dragon1, broadwaybabygirl, AttackingHentaiChibisLoveFluff, NenaLaury, Scyco Sphinx and all of my readers! Thank you!


	36. The Dark Mark

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: After what happened in the last chapter, do you really want to waste your time reading this? Then let's do this quickly: I don't own Harry Potter because, Lo and Behold: J.K. Rowling does!

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Before you all get angry with me for taking so bloody long to update… I just think that you should know that it was all my school's fault. Granted, I did encounter a very bad case of Writer's Block for this particular piece and I'm also working on a few one-shots and a new fic. But **thanks to all of the reviewers**! Oh, and to my WONDERFUL reviewer, **Spitfirecracker**: I shared the same fear for a while, but I've got the ending all planned out, and I assure you (though it may take a while) that Basketcase will become a 'Complete' soon enough. 

**For Jessica –** I'm sorry about your mother. I know this probably isn't the best chapter to dedicate to you, but thanks for the message. I wish you luck with everything. Weariness is a universal thing. But I hope you find something to smile about even when life takes a turn for the worst.

**ADVICE:** My beta suggested I tell all of you lovelies what I told her as well: to listen to **Coldplay's "_Fix You"_** when Draco enters the scene. I myself listened to it over and over (amongst other songs) again to help me. It helps the emotion and sets the mood. So if you'd like to get the whole impact of the chapter, feel free to whip out your CD and play it!

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**"_Let the heartbreaking begin."_**

**The Dark Mark**

He'd been gone for three days. He'd left no note, no letter, no nothing. He just disappeared. His portrait had even let her in his room to check, but all she'd found was an empty room. His bed was made, his window was open by a small crack. It was cold and drafty. But there was no Draco.

To say that she was going mad out of her wits was an understatement.

She'd gone to Dumbledore but all he'd told her was that he'd absented himself along with Professor Snape on some personal business. He'd told her that Draco was in good hands, but that didn't bolster Hermione's hopes one bit – nor did it ease the incessant tangling inside her stomach. By Sunday night, Hermione felt like one giant knot. With two blobs of jelly substituting her once useable legs, a painful cluster branching out in her heart, a rack of worry scraping by in her skull, she was far from all right.

She didn't have a clue as to where he could have gone. Snape had been warning her, told her – nay, _promised_ her that she would be on her knees by the end of the week. He had been serious. She'd known that. But she just didn't know – had been hoping so hard and so fierce that he wouldn't strike her where she was most vulnerable.

He couldn't have harmed Draco. But where could he have taken him? How could Draco have agreed to let Snape take him? She knew that Snape had always been something of a mentor to Draco (not a very pleasant one, in the least) but how could he have agreed to go away with him to some unknown place without telling her? Had his nonexistent goodbye been intentional?

Thinking that, Hermione couldn't help but feel her heart break a little.

Hermione dug her palms into her eyes, letting out a rickety breath. Her eyes were sore and dry like two raisins that had been left to desiccate in the sun for too long; her hands were deathly tired and even a little sore. She had just finished her second exam. Yet there was nothing about the arrival of their exams that she had been waiting for ever since the start of this year that delighted her one bit. Now that, clearly, was an obvious sign that there was something definitely wrong.

Where was Draco? Didn't he have the decency to at least write her a quick note, send her an owl so that she wouldn't be fretting so madly and becoming so unfocused in the midst of their timed testing? Was it family business? Had something tragic happened – a death, maybe? Did it have something to do with Lucius?

She sighed, biting her lip, looking down at her parchment and her anti-cheating spell-enforced quill. She was so distracted. She couldn't concentrate. Three days? Three whole days without a single owl – not even just to tell her that he was still alive and that Snape hadn't, in fact, kidnapped him for some very perverse reason? That was seventy-two hours! What could Draco possibly be doing that he couldn't spare one of the four thousand, three hundred and twenty minutes he'd been gone to scribble down an _"I'm fine, don't worry"_?

Now, she knew that she shouldn't go leaping about to conclusions, much less jump to the dangerous ones that wreaked her mind of past nightmares and endless skin-crawling shivers, but she couldn't help it. Worrying about him and his current situation had taken the place of sleeping in her present life.

And it was all his fault, too.

So.

To sum it all up: she was tired to the bone, worried and going mad out of her mind, gruesomely sleep-deprived, and had even lost her motivation for test-taking. Well, a little. She couldn't let all of those weeks and months of N.E.W.T.-prepping go to waste, now, could she? Hermione Granger was just not that kind of girl.

Even if she had just discovered she was the kind of girl that fretted uncontrollably over her boyfriend, even when she knew perfectly well that he could most certainly take care of himself.

But – did he even care? It didn't even seem as if he cared to leave a note to somehow assure her that everything was going fine and that he hadn't been subjected to child abduction, and that annoyed her. Did he honestly not think that she wouldn't notice his whole absence for a complete three days? Because if he did, well – obviously he needed to get his brain in-tune with reality! Hermione made a mental note to reprimand him a real good one as to somehow forever scar it into his memory. Because that way, she wouldn't ever be reduced into some worrywart that could not keep herself concentrated on her examinations again.

Still biting her lip in thought, Hermione gripped her quill and ducked her head down, determined on double-checking her work until she was convinced it had reached her personal standards of perfection. Meanwhile, a certain blond, smirking boy still lurked backstage in all her contemplations.

oooo

After classes, feeling not up to facing the crowds today, Hermione detached herself from the hungry masses heading towards the Great Hall and the heavenly aroma of food. She silently delayed her pace and stayed behind in the corridor, looking forlornly at the throng of chattering students. Even then, she found herself looking for a tall head of silver and thought she knew that after three days of doing so and always coming out disappointed and empty-handed, she should have not expected anything else. For when plummeting false hope came, it came in chains.

But, somehow, she still looked for him in every crowd. It was hope, maybe. And the fact that she missed him and her heart had become so insufferably saddled with her doubts and ominous thoughts of his whereabouts that she felt it sagging deeper in her stomach region, dropping down below her skeletal ribs.

And then she felt foolish. She scolded herself for falling into that again, letting that threading semblance of expectation pull her in with its lure. It always succeeded in making her feel like the biggest idiot, every time.

She headed towards the back of Hogwarts, her gaze wistful and blearily unfocused on her surroundings. The shining antique coats of armor could have bolted upright from their positions and have started to charge at her with their swords out, aiming to kebab her, and she wouldn't have noticed. All she knew, all she could focus in on was the smart deep within her chest that throbbed with a deep amorphous imminence that was really beginning to frighten her.

Pushing against the black doors that felt of metal dust and rust, staining her fingers with coal-like powder, she slipped through and walked on towards the lake, feeling the leftover fresh scent the past chills had left behind, wafting seamlessly in the air like a distant memory.

The lake's ripples made a countering sound against the still atmosphere. The water shone like glistening stars hidden deep beneath but persisted in letting out illusive, seductive flashes on the surface.

Hermione let out an exhausting sigh as she dropped her bookbag down beside the protruding root of the giant tree and plopped down right beside it. She leaned her head back against its firm body, hoping that Draco would return today and relieve her of all of these heavy anxieties.

At first she had been shocked. Then it had been the feeling of worry that had charged at her like a hormonally imbalanced dog. And the dark feeling grew and grew, and then, by the end of the second day, she had been angry. It was common courtesy to let one's beau know if they were to take their leave – but had she expected anything less from a Slytherin with an eternally inflated ego the size of Jupiter? She thought not. But she had been hoping he had caught on by now that he wasn't single anymore, and thus could not just leave with his wretched Head of House whenever he pleased without a single word of explanation.

But by the next morning, this morning, all of her ambivalent feelings snarled into the matter had collapsed in a grubby mess inside of her. She became desperately, uselessly, entirely degraded into a mushy jumble of anxiety and paranoia with their friends worry and nervousness trudging happily behind with their axes and hammers and mallets eagerly nestled on their shoulders.

She closed her eyes, her fingers pressing against her temples, moving in what was supposed to be soothing circular motions. She was so exhausted. This was the start of the two weeks of what was supposed to be heaven for her – their N.E.W.T's testing! How could she be exhausted? How could she be lacking energy like a former drunk-depressive in a rehabilitation center? She was supposed to be on _fire_! Going through their exams like a madwoman on a blood hunt, studying like the end of the world was to come if she didn't get it all right – breathing in their texts like it was the only form of oxygen she needed to breathe. Nothing was supposed to distract her from her obsessive-compulsive studious motives. Nothing.

Draco was supposed to be here with her. They would study together – or alone, it didn't matter. He was just supposed to be _here_. He was not supposed to have pulled a vanishing trick. They'd worked out a schedule. All tomfoolery and passionate snogging sessions would be delayed until the minute exams ended, and they had both agreed (albeit the twitching in Draco's corrugated brows and his objections until she had promised to invoke bodily harm to him if he didn't), because it was the best. It was for their futures. And their futures were important.

Because she and Draco – most especially Draco – were going to have futures. They were. She was. He was. She wanted to assure him of that.

She didn't know how long she'd been sitting there, oblivious to her surroundings or the darkening of the sky, but was lulled off by the soft breezes that came like cascading cherry blossoms, caressing her cheeks like sometimes Draco would do. But she was shaken from her longing thoughts, hazy but poignantly weighing and deep, by a deep voice and a quiet touch on her shoulder.

Her eyelids fluttered open, hoping that it'd be Draco – but was instead met with a pair of emerald eyes. He was smiling familiarly at her, with that tinge of warmth in his face and that quirky line of worry shaped like a crescent moon beside the corner of his mouth.

Hermione was startled, but couldn't help but feel that ache of disappointment start to throb in her chest again.

"Harry," she said, trying to sit up. She yawned. "What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be eating lunch in the Great Hall?"

"I am, and I was," he informed her as he occupied the seat next to her. "Thirty minutes ago. Lunch already ended."

"Oh."

So apparently she had been out for longer than she had hoped.

"You lolled off here. Ron wanted to find you so he could borrow some of your notes to study from."

"Are you sure? He probably only wanted some more things to liven up the fire in the common room," Hermione dryly remarked.

"I don't know. He was pretty panicked."

Hermione sighed heavily, her chest heaving. "Serves him right. Didn't study at all when I told him to, and now he's frightened to death. I think I'll let him hang for a bit. Just to milk this moment up for what it's worth. I've been waiting a long time for this." Then she smirked. "I want him to beg."

Harry looked up at the shadowy leaves shading them from the overcast sky. "Your luck's looking up. Seems like you'll get your wish soon."

Hermione grinned.

Then he looked at her, and Hermione noticed the look on his face, as if he was calculating her. She recognized it because she had the same look on her face sometimes plastered on for days at a time that she began to think it was some sort of facial imbalance. A lack of nutrition, maybe. Protein. She didn't know.

"Has testing gotten to you so terribly that I've started to look like an exam too?" she asked him, pointing out his expression. "Maybe you should go see Madam Pomfrey."

"No, it isn't that," said Harry, shaking his head. "It's just – have you gotten any sleep at all? I'd've thought, since it's exams and all, that you'd—"

"I know," said Hermione, not wanting to hear what they'd expected of her, because it was what she expected of herself as well. She didn't want to hear how miserable she looked, so terrible and the bruised, dark circles residing like unbearably loud tenants underneath her eyes. "I suppose I've gotten some. Barely," she said bitterly. The thought of Draco came up again, and suddenly she just wanted to ask Harry – even though she knew he wouldn't have as much of a clue either – where he thought he might have went.

Ron would have said hell, off to play cards with the devil or something. Or off to organize a tea social for the Death Eaters. But Harry, ever since their confrontation, still hadn't seemed to come to full terms with her and Draco's relationship yet and because of that he appeared like a closed book to her.

Sometimes he was overly hostile to her. Sometimes he wasn't. Sometimes he was himself – but sometimes he would be cruel and rub salt against the wound of her so-called "betrayal" of fraternizing with Slytherin's poster boy. Though he'd tried to smile at her that day in the Tower, had embraced her so protectively, their moments had been chary since then.

"It isn't… anything serious, is it?"

Serious.

Somehow, the word baffled her.

Was it serious? Could it possibly be only serious to her and ridiculous to everyone else? Was "serious" the word to describe Draco's disappearance? Or was it "You've just been dubbed clinically mental"? Would Harry laugh at her? Would Harry spit at her, telling her she rightly deserved what she got, and walk away? Was it serious if she suddenly felt like she wanted to cry? Was it serious if it spun her head around in painful whirls, fondled recklessly with her heart, and sabotaged the tests she had been working her whole life for?

Hermione didn't know when it came, or how it formed so quickly. But there was just a dry, hot lump in her throat the moment she came back from her troubled, useless interrogation that she wanted to swallow down but couldn't. It was like a small bone that she had accidentally swallowed but would never go away, promising the reign of her ongoing pain.

"I don't know."

Because she honestly didn't. She just felt that he needed to know that.

"You aren't… taking those potions again, are you?"

"No!" Hermione found herself saying, releasing more decibels than she intended. She calmed down. "No, I'm not." She believed it was not important to tell him that she had been banned from it and that the Head Boy – under orders of their headmaster – had confiscated it from her.

This was a time to be solemn, not humiliated.

"Good," he sighed. There was silence before he spoke again, and this time, his words fluttered to her, distorted like the bad service her mum often got on her mobile. "Everything will be okay, Hermione."

Somehow, she just couldn't get over the cramp in her gut that told him he was going to turn out terribly wrong.

oooo

Hermione was studying in their common room. There was a friendly fire, a nice and comfortable atmosphere – why couldn't she? Though this room held many memories (oh, if the walls could talk!) that suggested passionate moments between her and Draco, she managed to reluctantly overcome them and just set her mind like steel on her goal: to read over her novella of notes and prepare for another laborious round tomorrow.

And she was doing rather excellent, mind you. She had not let her mind amble off to other topics, hadn't let her worry and concern plague her like it had been the last two days. She was carrying on like her normal study-obsessed self so fantastically she felt as if she deserved a golden star. Sitting there for three hours, without a break, forcing so much information into her mind… it almost felt like she had traveled back in time. She felt nostalgic. She felt calm, composed, indifferent.

But no matter how many synonyms she conjured up and taught herself to love, she still struggled to overlook that hole in her heart that told her something was missing, and that something had always been; it was just that she hadn't noticed. Until now.

Then, something happened. She felt a cold wind blow into the room but she knew that she had made sure to shut the window because drafts only made her angrier for it reminded her of Draco's disappearing act. She stiffened, feeling her heart halt its casual beat, but only shook her head, blinking her eyes hard, getting back to her notes.

But she heard footsteps and a startling knowledge of presence jumped onto her bones. A dark blur appeared in the corner of her eye as she looked up, eyes wide. Then she leapt onto her feet, turning around and feeling as if the breath had just been knocked out of her by a broom. Her ribs felt overturned; her jaw had unhinged itself from the rest of her face. Her heart burst with relief and surprise.

"Draco?" she gasped after a moment of her shocked silence.

His face was grave, pale and stoic. It looked as if he had just been carved out of stone. He tried to smirk at her, but his face twitched in a disagreeing fashion. His eyes were a shade darker than she had remembered ever seeing them, and he stood… oddly.

"Granger," he acknowledged her.

But Hermione was too ecstatic to think the look about him was serious. Instead, she ran to him and flung her arms around his neck, breathing him in and convincing herself that this was not just some dream, that she had not just dozed off in those nonstop three train wreck hours of studying. He was here and she made certain she knew it, grasping his clothes, inhaling his familiar scent that still made her light-headedly woozy, holding him tightly. But as she pulled back, her eyes sparkling with joy, her face gave into the annoyance that had been bubbling underneath the surface all this time.

"You ignorant twit!" she scolded him, hitting him on the chest. "Where have you been? You were gone for three days – that's _seventy-two_ hours – and you didn't owl me, didn't leave a note, nothing! Nothing! How could you do that? Have you any idea how much I've been worrying these past days? I could have failed Part One of my N.E.W.T's because of you! And what about you – have you taken your exams yet? Last time I checked, our schedule was not adorned with any mentioning of you leaving, just like that! How on earth are you going to take them? The professors are bombarded with work and so they bombard us with work, and you can't just _not_ take them! You _have_ to! Why didn't you owl me? Where were you? Where did you go with Snape? I hope you have an explanation for all this," she huffed, crossing her eyes, her eyes narrowing at him.

He smiled at her, smiled to the best of his ability. But there was that twisting in his chest, that unmistakable pain that he had once assured himself he was immune to. But Draco Malfoy had always been a liar. Especially to himself.

He didn't understand his circumstances or his fate. Sometimes he wanted to and sometimes he just told himself to damn it all, and he did. Easily. He hated his father and the position he had brought him into, hated his mother for forcing him into this predicament, hated Snape for what he had done. But he also hated her. Granger. Head Girl, Gryffindor, as beautiful as she was insufferable and loyal. For allowing him to become attached to her like so, for allowing him to chance the utter breakage of his entire being and thawed heart. He hated her for being friends with Potter. Hated her for caring for the hero. Hated her for loving him.

But most of all, he hated himself. It was a deep, volcanic, churning hatred that he hadn't ever experienced before, and it tore him apart like a savage. It was everyone's fault, but it was most especially his. He hated that he had proved himself wrong – that he _could_ fall in love with a Mudblood like her. That he could feel something real and deep and strange, feel pain and hurt for another person. Just to feel. He hated feeling.

There was silence.

"Well?" she asked him, getting impatient. "Are you going to tell me or what? Because I assure you, no amount of worrying I did on my part could even be worth what you abandoned me for." And then she waited, pursing her lips and furrowing her brow.

Draco didn't know what to say to her. He'd subconsciously rehearsed this scene so many times in his head that he'd become so used to it, the dramatic soliloquy, had even memorized her agonizing expression – but he couldn't remember it anymore. The words had all fled from his mind, and suddenly he just wanted to turn and walk away from her. To leave. Leave this school, leave Dumbledore, leave her.

No – take her with him.

No.

Leave her.

Maybe this could be one of those things that were meant to be left unsaid. It would be convenient – but that was when Draco caught himself.

Nothing in his life was convenient.

He was amused at the scheme of putting up his horrible bravado of this unfeeling monster that he truly was… except he wasn't. Not anymore. But it was what he wanted to be, because if it was, he was sure this would all be so much easier. Surely it wouldn't even hurt just to say her name, or make smirking such an impossible feat. But it did, and it was. This was a feeling he could not curse away.

As time dawned on them, he watched as her firm, expectant look started to wane. He'd known she'd catch on fairly quick – no words were needed at all. That was how clever she was. She knew what was right and what wasn't – and not just moral-wise. He'd been counting on her quick psyche.

He remembered thinking that her amazing ability to catch abnormalities would make it easier, that he wouldn't have to say much for her to get the clue – but she could be quite dense when she wanted to be. He hoped that she wouldn't make him explain it through and through.

But Hermione Granger had always been one for wordy explanations.

It was all those damn textbooks she read. They made her detail-needy.

And Draco Malfoy had never been one for details.

Most especially now.

It was just then that Hermione remembered the stiffness of his body, the hardness of it and the coldness when she had hugged him. It had felt as if she'd just embraced an iceberg. Then she registered the look on his face, so serious that normally she would have wanted to laugh if she hadn't been struck with an arrow of straight fear.

She felt her heart fold over as she continued to observe him: the way he stood, the way he looked at her, the way his face was so somber and grave… even the way his eyes had changed. They seemed older somehow. Like he'd been forced into this yawning tunnel of duty, stretched out in his limits that now he knew what he could do and what he should. They were… sad. Pained. But solid.

"Draco?" she whispered. That same worry she thought she had precisely tucked away when she had seen him had managed to trickle out again. "What is it? What…"

_'You're not going to like me anymore,'_ he thought as he stared into her brown eyes flooding with concern and fear. He had stalwartly accepted it – with no obvious reluctance or resistance – that she was going to hate him again, but now as he really stood before her and not just in his mental scenarios, it seemed harder. That pure wall of wholesome emotion in her eyes was something he had failed to capture in his mind, and his preparation and his training to seem like an unsympathetic robot was even more difficult to recall.

Her eyes flickered down as he could muster up no words to supply to her question. She appeared to know something had happened to him. Something terrible. Something that would break her heart, and she was scared.

He watched as her eyes roamed him, unknowingly stopped breathing when they finally settled on his left arm.

She had noticed the blotch of darkness that penetrated through the white fabric of his shirt.

"What… what happened to your arm?" she whispered, her voice shaky. She took a step closer to him and reached for his hand, Draco feeling his muscles contract as he felt her fingers encircle around his, warm and soft and everything Draco realized he loved. His ribs crowded in. His lungs clenched. His blood stopped its distribution and clotted somewhere in his head.

Her touch ascended him like fire, but as her fingers traced up his palm, up his wrists, then elegantly fumbled to roll up his sleeve… he unknowingly closed his eyes, waiting. Expecting. Morosely convinced that a bullet through the head would have been more suffice. His eyelids trembled and he swallowed hard.

The mark was dark against his milky skin. "It's so dark… were you hurt? Is it a bruise? What happened to…"

And then it appeared that her words were not enough.

She had scrunched up his sleeves, fully revealing the mark on his forearm. It was indeed dark, the blackest of black, blemishing his perfect skin. It glared at her with its malicious eyes, shouted at her, pounced on her as she froze with wide eyes, her breath stolen away from her. Her face paled in record time. Her heart ceased its beating. Her mind – overloaded with thinking as it usually was – had frozen away and then was struck with such a violent force that it shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces.

Then, as her brain was finally able to fully realize what was staring back at her, permanently etched on his arm, her hand jerked back from him as if she'd just been burned. She took a clumsy step back, dizzy from the revolving shock that kept hitting and knocking her down like a vicious surf, pulling at her and then weighing her down, plunging her deeper and deeper into the murky and diseased ocean floor. She stared at the image on his arm.

It was what had haunted her for nights and nights. Her, Ron, and Harry. And the other innocent civilians of the wizarding world. It was what was displayed menacingly across the night sky after a rampage of cold-blooded killings and shed, innocent blood.

The Dark Mark.

Then her eyes traveled to his face, looking staid and so unyielding. She felt something sweltering behind her throat, a tumor of heat and anger and a burning hope that this was all some joke he was pulling on her, but when she opened her mouth to ask him why he would be so cruel as to pull such a trick on her, why he was looking at her like this was all so real… She couldn't speak – couldn't even stammer out an excuse of a single vowel. The white-hot question pulsed in her mind with such a dramatic existence that it prevented her from breathing normally, or even breathing at all.

"Draco," she was finally able to stifle out. But it was all she could say. She was met with that same look that crushed her for all that she was. He wasn't lying. He wasn't playing some cruel, mean joke on her.

But it couldn't be real. Hermione would not accept this. She would not accept this reality. It was too painful; it was too hurtful. She wanted to ask him why but she couldn't because she was so eager on trying not to believe him. This wasn't real. This wasn't real. This was a dream. This was a nightmare. She would wake up from this and find the real Draco beside her, the real Draco who had once told her that he despised Death Eaters and swore to her that he would never join the murderer who killed so many and haunted ten times as many. The real Draco. Her Draco.

She expected for a goofy smile to just suddenly break out across his face, laughing at her for her gullibility. "A joke, Granger," he would say to her, grinning so handsomely, "you need to work on your sense of humor." And then she would smile, too, greatly relieved, letting him kiss her on the lips before she slapped him hard across the face for scaring her like that.

But as the silence went on, as she spent more and more time shaking her head and trying to convince herself this was all just an evil mind trick, that the above scenario would happen, the more she wanted to collapse to her knees and let out the sobs she was trying to suppress deep inside her chest. The more she tried, the more it ate away the rest of her.

It was real. It was real. This was real.

Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater.

She thought it to be funny. One minute she could not speak. The next a big painful sob threatened to escape from the back of her throat, tender and storming through her body like a wild spear. Her body quivered violently.

Her eyes locked on his, powerless and desperate. She was confused, afraid, and even worried. "What… what…" And then the bubble in the back of her throat burst, her voice suddenly immersed in an immense sob that made the ground underneath her tilt and split open and made her long to just jump in so that she wouldn't have to face this. She could not find the right words. Suddenly, it hurt even just to think. It hurt to stand. It hurt to speak. The size of the passageway of her throat had become the diameter of a pin, her lungs crumbling in and shrinking until they were no bigger than her fingers.

"Draco, please," she choked out, tears burning her vision and cheeks. "Please don't tell me…"

"It's over, Granger," Draco frigidly told her. His eyes were opaque and dark, like black, glistening stones. They told her the truth, the cold hard truth, and she hated them for it. A cruel scowl was embedded on his ivory-colored face. "It's over."

Then suddenly, she started to laugh through her tears, but her laughs were empty and seeking for a concrete, physical, _real_ support that he could not offer her. "This is a joke," she said, completely dismissing what he had said. "This is a joke. You do have the most despicable sense of humor…"

"No, it isn't," said Draco, trying to make her stop her attempts of unbelief of what was happening now, the Dark Mark clearly spelled out on his arm. She was angering him. He hadn't been counting on her refusal and wanted this to go as fast as it could so there was less chance it would drag on and burn into his brain, causing him to relive it every day of his life. He needed her to get angry. He needed for her to be _livid_ with him for her to let go. "It's not a joke, Hermione," he said firmly, ice in his voice. "This is not a joke. It's real. I'm a—"

"No!" she suddenly yelled, her face twisted in agony and hurt. She was furious. "_No_! You're _not_! How could you be? How? You could never – after what you said—"

"I am!" he told her, shouting. Her fierce denial hurt him more than he ever cared for it to. It was better to see her angry than to be like this, crying and trying to tell herself that this was all unreal. She didn't want to lose him. But she had already, whether they had wanted it to happen or not.

It had happened.

"I thought you were smart!" he yelled, feeling the constricting of his throat escalate to new heights, extending to the top of his head where it released toxic heat. He gathered his anger from his frustrations, from his loss, from the injustice of his life. And he directed all of them towards her. "Couldn't you see it? Or did it have to be written in those bloody textbooks of yours, or spelled out in the stars, or on Harry Potter's forehead? This is real! It was supposed to happen! It was _meant_ to! You know that as well as I do!"

"No!" she screamed, shaking her head, her legs threatening to buckle under her. "I don't believe you! Why are you doing this? _How_ could you do it? And don't you dare tell me they forced you – _no one_ can ever make you do something! You had a _choice_, Draco! You _always_ have and you always will – no matter who it is you have to defy! The question is whether you're strong and willing enough to stand up to them!"

"Some things just can't be helped, all right, Granger?" he bellowed, frustrated with her questions of how and why.

"The _fuck_ they can't be!" she shouted, enraged. Her body quivered, the fire behind them setting her face aglow with uncontrollable vexation. Her rage dominated her brokenness now. "How could you do this? _How_?" she asked him again, feverishly griping for some plausible explanation. "How – if you said –"

"It doesn't matter what I said!" he hollered, his words ripping through her like a sharp and unforgiving blizzard. "Words are just words! This is my life, can't you understand? Can't you see?" He jerked his arm out again, showing her the mark on his arm, as if it was the only proof she needed. "This – is – my – _life_! And maybe you just can't understand it, but that doesn't mean the whole world stops until you've got it all figured out!"

He was breathing heavily, his eyes stormy beneath his silver hair.

"You've got your life, I've got mine. Don't act stupid, Granger," he maliciously spat. "You know it's always been that way. And it always will."

She was freely crying now. No matter how much she told herself, tried to keep it back – that no, she wasn't going to cry in front of such a hypocritical man – her sobs overtook her petite frame, violently shaking her like it shook the world when its plates moved. She didn't want to believe him – but how couldn't she, if he was shouting it in her face? If he was proclaiming it like it was a fact, and therefore was? Denying was useless. It was tiring. None of that mattered now.

His words had spelled out her greatest fear. This _moment_ spelled out her greatest fear. The day when he gave into the stereotype of his dark future, the day when he realized their tracks ended in metal rails that had been unfinished from the start – and worse: did something about it. Like breaking her heart.

Mission accomplished.

He had given away his life to servitude to a murderer they vowed to kill, stolen her heart away and then trampled all over it like an ape provided with tap shoes, then yelled at her with words so hurtful and true…. Yes, she was angry. She was _furious_. She wanted to charge at him and bloody him up, and wasn't even surprised at the animalistic, violent measures she truly wanted to take for making her feel such ferocious pain. And maybe her anger and hatred for him that was burning so hotly and brightly right now overshadowed everything else: her sadness, her brokenness, the fact that she had just realized she loved him and he willingly stepped up to follow the Dark Lord… but it just _hurt_ her. It hurt her like nothing she'd ever experienced. The Cruciatus curse couldn't have torn her apart to pieces like Draco Malfoy had.

But there was one thing she had to know. One thing that she had to know – one thing that would prove to her if their time together really had been worthy, had really been commendable, that she'd truly made a change inside him that he couldn't ever undo, no matter what words he yelled at her, no matter how much he glared at her, no matter how much he told her he hated her.

Through her sobs, a question cracked from her throat. It was soft as it could only elude in a whisper, a dry whisper but soaked with excruciating torment and agony.

"Do you love me?"

She looked at him. He blanched quickly, his face losing its color, the redness that had erupted across his pale skin from his passionate anger. His jaw clenched. A shard of something unreadable and ambivalent blossomed in the depths of his icy gaze. He did not answer her, only clenched his fists as tightly as he could until he drew blood from himself.

Her voice strengthened, demanding, tired of his silence, her eyes squinted and shining with streaky tears of anguish. "Do you love me? Answer me! _Do – you – love – me?_"

"No!" Draco exploded, a riptide of pain slashing through him and almost crippling his very soul. "No! I don't love you! _I don't love you!"_

His biting words rang in her ears.

_I don't love you._

Her eyes wavered, trembling. She closed her eyes firmly for a moment, and twin tears fell down, dragging against her nose, tracing down to her lips where she tasted them. They sizzled on her tongue, salty like the ocean and warm like the fever she felt pounding in the back of her skull.

A whisper fled from her swollen lips. It was the last drop of her bravado. She believed it would save her. He did not deserve to know her burden. He did not deserve to know that she loved him despite his evil nature. That she loved him despite his father, his history, his impetuous attitude, his imperious ways.

He did not deserve to know that she loved him despite his Dark Mark.

"Good."

Draco couldn't look at her. Couldn't bear to. For he feared that if he did, he might do something foolish again – as if these last few months with her hadn't already surpassed his limit for foolishness. But something about what she had said to him stung the very core of his heart, widening the rupturing crack in his soul.

Good.

There was good and evil. Good and bad. Good and miserable. Good and fantastic. What did that word mean, exactly? It was subjective. But his silent question was worthless. He knew exactly which good she meant.

Good. Good that he didn't love her.

Draco didn't see the hurtful look that flashed across her face, glistening against the sheen of her eyes, for the next moment, he felt the motion of her body turning away and heard her footsteps rapping inside his pounding ears as she walked away from him and he knew that that would be the last time he would hear her voice ever again.

In the common room, the fire slowly blew out.

oooo

Draco had retired to his room. His voluminous silk curtains fluttered with the wind's cascading drafts, passing along his chilled walls, clinging to his skin. He felt it comb through his hair, the icy eminence of the night, and it created a bubble inside his chest, stifling his thoughts with nostalgia.

He'd been in here for an hour. He'd been captured in an imprisoning trance as soon as she had faded from his view with her hurt and angry eyes. He licked his dry lips and he tasted salt. He fisted his hands and he felt her brokenness. He sighed and he remembered how her breaths had never ceased to send ripples of frightening pleasure through his skin.

She would just be a figment of his memories now – interconnected with some emotion, perhaps, but she wouldn't be real anymore. And when things faltered from existence, they were no longer a distraction. Just traces of things once tangible and troubling and maybe even exciting, but as he had left behind anything worth anything to him at all, he now looked on with a sort of inhuman emptiness.

He couldn't figure out the feeling. Inside his lungs, there had been a tumor of growing intense pressure that had bestowed on him internal pain with every departing word, but now as he searched with his fingers, pressing down against his shirt, it was no longer there. He trailed his cold fingers to his left, right underneath his collarbone. That was where the heart was supposed to be. Alive, pounding. All he could feel was a very faint and dull drumming.

His heart stung. The breeze did not help to nurse it but only strengthened the pain. He was convinced the harsh tingling was no longer based on the physical level of pain – just a mental ruse of his mind. Subconsciously, it had impacted him, and it seemed to be telling him that it would be damned if Draco forgot that so easily. Not like he could, anyway. Snape could tell him terrible things. Snape could show him frightening images and memories. Snape could hand him threats. Snape could train him through pain. Snape could teach him how not to feel. It didn't mean it would actually work.

Something strange happened to his face when he thought of her. It would appear impassive for a moment, unaffected due to his natural stoicism. But then his lips would start to quirk upwards. His heart took that great plunge, something magical coursed along his bloodstream – as the thought of her had always triggered something poignant inside of him, whether it had been hate or warmth. Or pain.

Sadness painted his body inside out. But the naïve sense of carelessness tried furiously to rub it away.

He sighed, closing his eyes, pressing firmly on his eyelids. He swallowed to hydrate his throat and arid mouth. Thinking had started to become painful these last few days. Blood and mangled bodies were permanently burned into his mind. And his only comfort he'd now succeeded in driving away. He supposed now that the comfort he could ever really hold on to was that she was going to be safe. And if there was ever going to be a time when everything meant nothing in the near future, she would be unaffected. Because she would be everything. If not to him then to someone else. Someone else who could be with her without endangering her life. Someone else who could protect her. A saint, just like her.

His lids opened, revealing tired eyes. He grabbed his handkerchief and dabbed it into the glass of water by his bedside. His gaze slightly began to burn now for a reason he could not exactly make out, but he felt that blinding pressure that had vanished begin to stack up inside him again. His heart began to pound and his vision somehow slowly began to blur away. He rolled up his sleeve and he pressed the silk against the Dark Mark scarred on his milky forearm.

And slowly, ever so slowly, it began to rub away.

**

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**Post-A/N:** Ugh. My pathetic attempt at a break-up scene. The reason this chapter took so bloody long was because I was constantly unsatisfied with it – but with some time and help from my lovely beta, it worked out. I had a thought to just make Draco disappear entirely for the rest of this fic (so he'd have abandoned Hermione) just to avoid writing it. As you can tell, break-up scenes are not my forte. Maybe because my heart just wasn't in it. I never want Draco and Hermione to break up for anything – but alas, it must happen.

**Review,** but don't agree with the above statement too much, okay? Don't make me feel too miserable. ;) I'm only joking. Write whatever you want. Yell at me, tell me what you think – just let me know people are still reading this and have not yet given up on this fic! Because, you know, it is almost **ending.**


	37. A Certain Cemetery

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: Oi vey. As if you didn't already know, I am just a little fan girl – not J.K. Rowling, who wears the crown of the great HP franchise. Chapter title borrowed from Pretty Girls Make Graves, who I am not affiliated to in any way.

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Ah, yes, the aftermath of the horrid break-up. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to smuggle in much humor in this one, since it's all supposed to be solemn and gloomy and what have you. But hopefully you won't hate it too much, eh? Oh, another thing: Hermione may be a tad **OOC** here. I mean, can you blame the girl for crying a bit – the love of her life has just broken up with her! So, just a warning. I know all of my readers are exceptionally clever and will point that out to me anyway.

**THANKS TO ALL OF THE READERS AND REVIEWERS A MILLION TIMES OVER!**

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**A Certain Cemetery**

Being heartbroken was not exactly Hermione Granger's forte. After all, she excelled in reading, studying, writing, code deciphering, scolding, potion making, and analyzing just about anything. She was rubbish in flying, yes, but it was only because she wasn't exactly the fondest of heights, brooms, or the concept of heights _and_ brooms together. She was fidgety and jumpy when it came to fast movements. Thus, all of those inconvenient traits would never qualify for her to be a Quidditch player.

But the heartbreak was undeniable. Unmistakable. It was there. It was. It gnawed at her insides and minced the leftover shards of her bloodied heart. It was like an untouchable itch, bothering the hell out of her every single day. She relentlessly attempted to ward it off with thoughts of defiance and stalwart pride – but how could one insist on such a thing as pride when her own was stripped away from her?

She hated him. She hated him with a fiery, living vengeance.

But then why wasn't it easy to stop thinking of him? Why wasn't it easy to stop crying? Why wasn't it easy to just pick up where her life had left off before his entrance and move on? Why wasn't it easy to just accept the way things were – Him: a Death Eater, her: a fool – and just forget all about it and simply _study_?

Because it had been simple for him. Agonizingly simple. A few snogs, some study sessions, a few sweetened words – then BAM! Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater so that meant Stay away, Mudblood. He's going to hurt you. He's going to hand you over to Voldemort so he and his merry little band of idiotically cloaked dimwits could torture you to lure in Harry Potter. But they were wrong – oh, yes, they were.

There was nothing in the world that could possibly make her hurt more than she already was.

Draco Malfoy had done the worst thing he could do to her now.

So she spent one night crying all she could, thinking that if she could wring out all of her tears now, she would be fine. But the next night, and the nights after, though without the tears – she was in pieces.

She needed an outlet for her emotional distress. It was too much for her body to handle – the constant surging of anger and sadness, even confusion that came like nasty migraines at the most random times. She felt disoriented and claustrophobic. Never had her emotions been so eager on running her straight to the ground. She even wanted to go around ripping apart pillows, breaking vases, screaming until they put her into a straitjacket, tearing books and parchments and throwing furniture like a disorderly rock star.

And she would have.

Easily.

But she didn't. She was too keen on trying to keep the ruined remainder of her dignity and trying to furiously prop up her backbone. She believed with a burning passion that she'd wasted enough tears on him that one night, and sometimes she was just enveloped in a terrifying state of numbness that tears, in their entire watery essence, had lost all sense to her in itself.

She hated them on her skin. She hated how they felt, how warm and wet, hated how they tasted and lingered on her tongue like an ongoing reminder of how she had let herself fall into such a petty trap. She hated the way they pushed themselves out, persisting like wild dogs, until it hurt so horribly that her skull had started to produce dizzying amounts of throbbing, toxic heat. They made her chest hurt, like her ribs were shrinking in and puncturing her tender, bruised lungs. She hated how they sparkled even in her blotted view, glistening against her wrists and fingers, like liquefied diamonds.

She was familiar with the fact that life was never fair. She'd grown to live with it, really. But it was only now she realized the full extent of it. What had she done to deserve it? Deserve _this_? After all, she was a good person… wasn't she? But then she knew that it was beyond what she deserved and what she didn't. Life did not pay any attention to such measly things. It went on its own accord, as insufferable as it was.

Now, Hermione Granger wasn't much of a crier, not really. She cried at appropriate times – funerals, goodbyes, times of loss or sadness. Even happiness. It was part of being a woman, she reckoned, part of the emotional body and function of having ovaries and having far more volatile hormones than the male species. She had always predicted women's emotions would be their downfall – she had just never thought _she_ would fall with the rest of them. After all, she knew right from the very beginning being associated to Draco Malfoy in a way other than being mere acquaintances acted as a significant magnet for trouble. And never in her life would she have thought she'd delve so recklessly into a romantic relationship with _him_.

But she did, anyway.

Hence, her doom.

So, in conclusion: she hadn't anyone else to blame for her broken heart and wretched state of sadness and gloom. In a moment of determined clarity she'd analyzed her ill-bearing situation and mustered enough of her organizational skills to work out a timely chart for sulking and the process of Getting Over Him. It would take her approximately four days. A week, if she really was as much of a blubbering mess than she guessed and hoped she wasn't. A week and a half if it truly was worse than she thought.

She didn't want to think about him – he would just ruin the remainder of her school year. The end was zooming in fast and she had to take advantage of her time with Harry and Ron. They were important to her. So she made it a nightly and daily routine to ignore that grazed, broken patch on her shattered heart and wash up, properly and promptly readying herself for more exams and school. She spent her free time studying, reading, or hanging around with Harry, Ron, and Ginny.

She even started to feel indifferent. Casual, even though inside there was this sort of emptiness that radiated with brokenness and hurt all around. She'd gotten used to the feeling of forced happiness, even though sometimes she was too deep in something she couldn't quite explain to really get around to it. Sometimes she even felt as if her soul had been put in her body the wrong way. Her back always felt like it had been surgically replaced with a steel rod, her head with a block of cement, and her chest… her chest…

Replaced with something ground under the heel, gunned down, smashed, hammered, burned, and stabbed.

Yes. Precisely just like that.

But it was just something that could not be helped. She tried sitting with her back to the Slytherin table but even being in the same room with him made her sick. Or hurt. Sometimes it all just meshed into one monster of a blow she couldn't tell which was which. Point was: Pain was incorporated with every thought she wasted on him. Pain that made every single part of her body hurt. And it was awful.

It didn't help that she still didn't understand – but she thought it was better if she put a stop to those questions of how and why. He was a Death Eater. He didn't love her. There was nothing else to question. End of story.

Nevertheless, there were times she thought she'd finally gone numb from the pain. Then there were times it began to ache so much and her brain failed to release those anesthetizing endorphins it was supposed to. Or was heartbreak too big a task?

Those were the times she hated the most.

"Hermione?"

She stiffened, surprised by another presence in the Tower. She turned and let out a silent sigh of relief as a figure stepped out from the darkness, his pale face illuminated and glowing from the moonlight. His round glasses gave off a harsh glare like car headlights but as he slightly turned his head, the light vanished and revealed inquiring emerald eyes. She couldn't help but smile in amusement of his patterned pajama bottoms – almost identical to the checkered design of her own.

She reveled in Muggle clothing, she really did.

He held the Invisibility Cloak in his right hand as he plodded towards her, settling right beside her, overlooking the dazzling scene of Hogwart's view at night.

"Couldn't sleep, either, then?" asked Harry, his mouth quirked into a friendly smile. But there was this odd look about him… like the way his shoulder muscles poked out so tautly, like the way his lips seemed to press against each other so tightly it almost seemed like a scowl.

Hermione turned away, sniffling silently, pretending to rub her eye but was really making sure she had dried all of her tears. She was a smart girl, Hermione Granger. It was a technique she'd easily learned over the last few days, like the way Parvati and Lavender had learned how to snog fantastically (despite the rumors that they'd been born natural Goddesses of Snogs from birth). They didn't say, "Practice makes perfect" for nothing, after all.

"No," she said quietly, turning her face. She avoided looking at her friend, afraid that he might see through her and possibly make everything worse.

Because she didn't put it beyond him, really. Over the past years Harry Potter had gotten new mysterious powers… and she didn't want to be subject to one of them. Ever. And what would he do if he knew? She remembered his vow to physically harm the Slytherin prick, and while she would just gladly prod him in his direction and say, "By all means, please," because she really did mean, "by _all_ means, _please_" – she didn't want any of the above.

She didn't want anyone to know, not really. She wanted to lie her arse off, but even then, sometimes, late at night, she felt like just heading up to the Gryffindor commons and confessing what had really happened. It was a heavy and painful thing to keep bottled up inside. Unbearable, even. But she just didn't want to seem like the victim.

Even if she was, in fact, the victim.

"Maybe it's end-of-term jitters," he suggested as they took in the majestic sight of the full moon. She looked down, at his arm. It was a dead white in the moonlight.

"Maybe it is," agreed Hermione, clearing her throat, although she begged to differ. "It's been rather hectic these past few weeks. Stressful…" A soft frown then started to construct itself on her face. "We should really be in bed. We have more exams tomorrow. I don't want to do poorly simply because I was out late doing God-knows-what. Same goes for you too, Harry. They don't suggest a full eight hours of sleep for nothing. I've even heard about some new scientific research saying that _nine_ hours is the necessary—"

"Slow down, Hermione," laughed Harry, looking at her with sparkling green eyes. "This isn't an exam either."

Embarrassed, Hermione laughed and looked down at her hands, feeling her cheeks begin to heat up. She felt awkward as the idea of telling Harry what had happened resurfaced again, but she shook it away. No, it wasn't the right time. Not now. They were right in the middle of testing! Just because she needed release from her burden didn't mean she could go and push all of her problems on him. Who was she to sabotage his N.E.W.T.s with her personal issues? She'd been trying to get Ron and Harry to prepare for them ever since September!

"How are you?"

His voice floated to her, detached to her surroundings.

"Sorry, what?" she asked, flustered.

"I asked how you were," he grinned boyishly, looking slightly awkward. But he was still tense, as if he was afraid to touch her. "I mean, here you are, in the middle of the night, at the Astronomy Tower. Alone. I'd've expected that—"

A sudden cut in her throat, a flash of silver hair stealing through her mind, she instantly interrupted him. "No, Harry," she said quickly, almost harshly. Her chest painfully tightened. "I'm alone here because I want to be. To think."

'_To cry'_ snorted her cynical mind. _'You're alone there because you want to be – to _cry_.'_

Hermione really did hate her mind sometimes. It gave out unnecessary remarks that were – albeit true – not in any way helpful at all.

"I was just going to say I expected to see a few books lying around," said Harry, looking at her peculiarly. His expression had furrowed into a serious one, the shadows and moonlight shading his features perfectly. "Are you all right, Hermione?"

The question boomed in her skull, clanking like chains. It rumbled from his throat like a massive swell of release and honesty. Like he had been carrying it around, stowed away somewhere inside him, for months. And it was only now he was asking her. But he meant it.

That was the thing. He _meant_ it.

She sighed, looking into his eyes with an earnest pounding in her chest.

Somehow, she felt as if Draco was in this very room with her, and she felt the same excruciating agony pulsing inside her again.

"No," she told him, almost feeling that same burning clot in her lungs again. She swallowed hard, looking away. She saw an illusory reflection in the pale face of the moon. "I'm not."

And a boy who'd had just the same idea of going up to the Astronomy Tower to contemplate in the presence of the refreshing spring night, standing right behind the suit of armor, looked down.

Glimpsing back at the two figures sitting just yards away from him, watching as the outline of girl's body started to tremble with broken sobs, Draco Malfoy slowly turned away and headed back to his room, his eyes tightly closed.

oooo

The next morning, owl post came earlier than usual. The flurry of noisy owls swooped into the Great Hall as everyone looked up and held out their hands. Ron yelped gleefully as his mum had sent him Fred and George's baby pictures (he had some plan with them, just what it was Hermione didn't know) and Harry got a few more letters from his fan base with some more notices that his Quidditch magazine subscriptions were ending. The voices that ripped from the envelope as Harry opened them pleaded at him to renew them, and some of their housemates giggled while Harry stuffed it into his goblet, drowning out the voice and causing bubbles to erupt from his pumpkin juice.

"Are they desperate, or what?" said Ron in his usual muffled fashion. He had crammed at least three glazed raspberry tarts into his mouth and was trying to stuff in another.

"No, Harry's just famous," said Seamus.

"They're going to start sending in workers personally if you don't answer," Ginny pointed out.

"Great," said Harry. "I can tell them no _personally_."

"You're cruel-hearted, Harry Potter," laughed Seamus.

"No," said Ron. "He's just fed up. Those letters make a bloody good fire, though," he added. "Easily flammable. Warms you right up. After five or six you can get a real blaze going."

Then a sudden silence enveloped their area, as if a freezing draft had just blown through. Neville, Ginny, Seamus and Harry were all looking at something with a grim expression.

Ron looked at them, puzzled. "What?"

"Hermione," said Ginny, her tone concerned. "Are you all right?"

Hermione was staring down at the letter in her hands, her mind reeling. Her body was taut and still, her eyes unmoving on the parchment.

Then she looked up, pale.

"It's my grandmum," she said. "She's dead."

oooo

Hermione went through her whole day in a state of melancholy.

She thought it to be quite funny, ironically. The boy she loved becoming a Death Eater, getting her heart stomped all over, and her grandmum dying from a stroke. If anything, this week was the most perfect week of her life. The losses just kept on coming, and she just kept hitting them straight out of the park. She should get an award.

Harry, Ron and Ginny had invited her to a friendly game of Exploding Snap in the common room to relieve them of all their test stress for the night, but after her last round of exams she instinctively headed towards the library. Madam Pince had greeted her at the door with a surprised look on her face because Hermione hadn't paid a visit in days, but Hermione only replied with her usual mannerism before heading towards the back.

And as she sat down at her table, a delicate silence shelling the lonely library, she succumbed into a poignant trance. Every moment of this week played before her eyes and she revisited each event, trying to figure out just what it was she had done to nudge such horrible luck into her life. She tried to analyze each of them with dry eyes and succeeded, but she still felt as if someone had just shot a hole right through her chest.

Her mum and dad had requested her to leave Hogwarts earlier than the other students. Before the graduation ceremony. In four days, in fact. They wanted her to be at her grandmum's funeral, and Hermione understood. Grandmum was important to them, and she was important to her too. But as Head Girl, she had a special part in the ceremony – but Dumbledore would understand, wouldn't he? He was an old man himself. He ought to be thinking of funerals too.

After all, it wasn't a pressing piece of responsibility. Besides, she'd had enough of those. It was time for someone else to give the responsible and hectic life a taste. After a while it had begun to discolor her tongue with a revolting flavor, obviously a signal to her that a break was most definitely needed.

She sighed.

Hermione was, without a doubt, disconcerted by this new ounce of trouble fate had so generously flung her way. What was it about her, really? Was she suddenly a magnet for unfortunate circumstances? If so, the timing could not be _any_ better.

"Miss Granger."

Hermione jumped. She looked up with startled eyes and felt her heartbeats instantly expire in her chest; her once-consistently buried anger suddenly sprouting from deep within her. Her surprise was immediately dominated by rage as suddenly her brown eyes gleamed alive, wild with ire, and she was flushed with fury.

Her hand impulsively reached for her wand.

"Now, now, let's not be so rash," Severus Snape chuckled, his upper lip curling so disgustingly that Hermione wanted nothing but to hex it off. She clutched her wand tightly as she drew it out, looking up at him, the point directed right at his colorless neck. His amusement passed as he finally discovered she was entirely serious, one raven brow arching up in curiosity. It was apparent to Hermione that he considered her to be no real threat, and it infuriated her. Just once, just this once, she wanted to prove him wrong so terribly she didn't care about the consequences.

"I believe you're forgetting just who you're pointing that wand at," he sneered.

"What do you want?" Hermione hissed through clenched teeth, flashbacks from their last meeting flickering right before her very eyes. Her grip tightened and her palms began to sweat. Her head felt as if it was overheating and icy chills crept through her skin, her body stiffening. The Dark Mark, menacing and sinister, on Draco's arm coldly painted itself in her mind.

She had so many reasons to hate this man. Twice as many to hex him. It was personal now – it wasn't just about Harry anymore. It wasn't about the bullying. He had targeted her and Draco. He was the one who had maliciously slicked Draco's road to Death Eater Avenue. He was the reason for all of this.

"Put down your wand, Miss Granger," Snape ordered silkily.

"No," Hermione defiantly spat.

"You have much courage – or is it" – his lip curled even more noticeably – "just bravado? After all, you Gryffindors are quite the festering sneaks. I never can tell with you lot." He glowered at her. "Very well then, seeing that you are persistent in continuing your insolence, that is fifty points from Gryffindor."

"What do you want?" Hermione asked again, not much nicer than she had before. "You succeeded, didn't you? You have him all to yourself now. Have fun. I know how much you like unrestricted intimacy."

"You're amusing, Miss Granger, you truly are. Although I do sense… bitterness," he taunted. "How unfortunate. I am very proud of Mister Malfoy for doing such a very good job with you. You're the best of the lot. How smart you are," he hissed chillingly, "yet so weak against the charms of the opposing."

"Get out," Hermione ordered, shaking with rage. "Get out now."

Snape smirked. "There are tests in life, Miss Granger. Sometimes you fail them. Then there are consequences. But do not let looks deceive." He paused, as if observing her. "I suggest you do not wait up for Mister Malfoy. During the last few days he has grown quite a lot. His father would be proud."

"His father was a murderer," Hermione said, trembling with the urge to scream it at him. Her anger was devastating even to herself. "And so are you. You're a fool to have dragged him down with you, siding with the Dark Lord. And make no mistake you're going to burn in hell for it."

His smirk widened, and Hermione almost couldn't contain herself. Every inch of her, every nerve, every drop of logic she possessed shrieked at her to just hurt him in some way. It didn't matter if he was a teacher. It didn't matter if he had more authority or power than she did. Did not even matter that Dumbledore trusted him. Dumbledore was wrong. Severus Snape was an enemy.

His smile was chilling. "Not as big a fool as a girl who falls in love with a destined murderer herself. And I do believe there's a hell much worse for that."

Hermione's breath stopped in her tightening and bound throat. Her glower was so intense she felt it smoldering on her skin. Her heart seemed terribly intent on mangling itself. "Get out," she warned him, her voice hard and firm but on the edge of her sanity. "Get out now." She couldn't be held responsible for whatever curse she threw at him – Unforgivable or not – were she to lose her temper. He was asking for it, and Hermione had always had an obliging side to her she wished to let show someday.

He began to chuckle. "Good day, Miss Granger." He began to turn away, his black robes monstrous in her blurring view. "Oh, and don't worry about Mister Malfoy. He's a strong one. Don't waste your time sulking on someone you don't deserve."

"_Expelliarmus_!" Hermione suddenly shouted, a jolt of electricity jerking through her body, a hurtle of silver injecting from her wand. But instead of hitting the professor, it hit the bookshelf beside him, causing books to explode from the shelves. It began to sway, threatening to hit the other bookshelves and promising a resulting domino-affect, but Snape, with a swish of his wand, set things back to how they were. The battered and flown books were flung back to their places, shelving neatly while repairing the damage, and the shelf was steadied.

Hermione, shaking and breathing raggedly, was standing behind him with a furious look on her face.

Severus Snape, not even glancing at the girl behind him, scowled. How he did pity her. Gryffindors were always too gritty for their own good.

"Seventy points from Gryffindor," he growled, before walking out, his voluminous black robes ruffling behind him.

Hermione stared after him, fire brimming her eyes. Her body was quivering, her skin hot and feverish while everything else inside her felt cold and clammy. A new feeling of defeat and shattered courage flooded her, deflating her lion heart. Her grip loosened and it took all she had right then not to slump down into a broken heap on the floor.

She closed her eyes, trying to swallow the bile taste that had crept up her throat, and let out a rickety sigh. Opening her eyes, revealing a weighty and sallow exhaustion in her once glittering brown orbs, she grabbed her satchel and walked out of the library, heading for the headmaster's office.

oooo

"But you… you don't have to go, do you? I mean, what about all our exams – and there's graduation—"

"I can take all of my exams in advance," Hermione explained. "I already talked to Dumbledore. He says it's absolutely fine."

"But what about graduation?"

Hermione pursed her lips, giving them a look of reluctance. They made it seem as if she was going to be launching herself into outer space.

Ron sighed, obviously knowing what that look meant. "Hermione, please don't tell me you're actually going to go! I mean – I, for one, have never even heard you talk about your grandmum! That must give us some sort of clue of how close you two are!"

That was true. She wasn't exactly cuddly-close to her grandmum, not in the way she should have been. But it seemed like a good idea; so tempting and so appealing she couldn't resist grabbing for the opportunity to escape. After all, she'd always heard graduations weren't all they were cracked up to be.

"But you're going to be giving out the speech!"

Even that. Suddenly, she didn't even feel like even thinking about it anymore. She knew exactly what she was going to say to them if she went right up there on that stage with Draco:

Nothing.

Have a nice life, maybe.

But nothing else.

She didn't want to talk about her dreams or her accomplishments or their bright futures now laid down before them and "beckoning for them to finally take that step into the rest of their lives." Screw their lives. She wanted nothing to do with them.

"Oh, honestly, Ron," she nastily snapped, feeling the gnarls of her temper. "Like you even care!"

Suddenly, all three of them lapsed into a shocked silence. Ron, recovering from her unexpected bite, was giving her a disturbed look, and Harry only looked at her with soft eyes, as if he felt sorry for her. But as Ron rounded on her, stopping her right where she was in the hall, she could feel his short temper whistling like a hot teakettle not too far in the distance.

His blue eyes dimly sparkled.

"What's _wrong_ with you, Hermione?" he asked, annoyed. "Are you on your _period_? Because those are only supposed to last a week and you've been acting like this for—"

Hermione's eyes widened, wondering how in the world Ron could have even known about those. "Ronald!" she exclaimed. "I'm not on my – could we have this conversation elsewhere, rather than the middle of an open corridor?" She really wasn't too keen on having a discussion about her _period_ where anyone could easily overhear. Not that she was planning on actually _having_ the discussion.

It was, in her mind, totally the thing Ron would bring up. It was of the idiot category, after all. Irrelevant, too.

She brushed past him, shutting her eyes for a second in the spirit of inconvenience, before she heard their footsteps scuffling after her.

"Well?" she heard him say from behind her, raising his volume. "_Are_ you?"

"No comment!" she rightfully huffed.

"Hermione—" said Harry.

_'Does he want to know if I've got my period as well?'_ gritted out a voice inside Hermione's head. It was as blunt as she was feeling. _'What do they bloody want? Proof?'_

"I don't want to go to graduation!" she exploded, wheeling around. Harry and Ron almost knocked right into her, but stopped right on time. Her eyes were filled with grit and bottled-up annoyance, but there was something else that made her seem smaller than usual.

Almost… like a little girl.

Harry could definitely see it. Ever since that night in the Astronomy Tower he couldn't help but look at her and wonder why she was looking so differently lately. She didn't even scold as much anymore. Yes, on outward appearances she didn't shine as usual, and she seemed just as focused on her schoolwork – but see, that was the thing. The drive that she had, it had changed. She wasn't even content anymore, not grateful for exams, not grateful for anything. Something had happened to her.

Of course, everyone received that vibe from her now. Even Neville – an obvious clue of the drastic change. But when she'd broken down that night, she'd only told him that it was from stress. Stress. She was losing her mind over exams. But it was so uncharacteristic of her to be so… well, hurt and vulnerable towards her studies. They were of substance to her but she wouldn't ever really cry about them, let alone lose her mind, no matter how many times Ron had muttered the contrary under his breath for the last seven years. But that night, when she had started to cry… he'd never seen her like that before. So broken.

And it didn't feel right, seeing her that way. It made him angry. It made him even angrier when he felt that she was hiding something else from them, but what could it be? He'd asked her if it was about Malfoy, but she'd just shaken her head like that was out of the question – like Malfoy could never hurt her. With a bleary smile, as if that would make it all vanish, she'd said it was just stress. Just stress. Like they were the two magic words he needed.

"But you've been dreaming about going up there with your shiny medal and badge and boasting about your accomplishments ever since first year!" Ron said, obviously trying to grasp a better explanation of why she had all of a sudden changed her mind about the one thing she'd beamed about ever since they'd known her. He was incredulous, but Harry could see suspicion start to bloom like spring blossoms in his oceanic eyes. "And you're just going to walk away from that because of some dead _old_ person? Have you gone absolutely bonkers? It was your _dream_!"

"That 'dead _old_ person' happens to be my grandmum," said Hermione frighteningly calmly. "And she means a lot to me, so I would very much appreciate it if you didn't take that tone when you speak about her. And – I _know_ it was my dream, all right?" Her voice was grave and sharp. Harry could see her fists clenching, her knuckles bulging from her weary sallow skin. "But some things change."

"Bollocks, that's what that is," Ron said as she started to turn away. Hermione stopped right in her tracks, feeling as if she'd just been stabbed in the back. "You know what you're doing? You're running away. From what, I haven't a clue, but I could recognize that look from anyone, anywhere. Even you, Head Girl. You're being a coward, trying to escape something by pushing away the sole thing that made you happy these past seven years, even when Harry here" – he jerked his thumb at Harry beside him — "got himself into a load of downright shitty messes. I can't believe you," he then spat. "Letting some measly problem reduce you into some spineless person. I thought we knew you better than that."

His words pummeled her; there wasn't a single doubt about that. Ron had always been something of an idiot, but there were some times he could be idiotically heroic. He said smart things so rare that if it were an animal it would be an outrageously endangered species – only three of them in existence so far. And at that moment, as Hermione had her back to him but was frozen still to the ground, she couldn't believe what he had said to her. She couldn't believe he had ground the truth right through his chocolate frog-smeared teeth, had spat it like it was another of Fred and George's toffee tongue sample testers.

But was it really the truth? Had she said yes to her mum and dad because she was running away? Had the pain of Draco driven her to leave Hogwarts without the joy of the feel of the crisp parchment of a diploma in her hand?

Was she exactly what Ron had said – a coward? Halfwit as he was, could he possibly be _right_?

Her mind spun. She didn't know. She really didn't know. She tried to swim through her subconscious, searching for the Yes or No to Ron's brave retribution, but she felt plugged from the air. She knew she should have gone off on him like a pistol, but she didn't. She felt empty. In half of a second, her anger vanished. The tense knots in her shoulders and neck vanished into a wave of warm tingles that buzzed through her gray skin. Time ticked by as they waited for her response and as she let out her breath of air, it did not serve her the justice she needed. It came out flimsy and weak.

A mirror of her emotional state of being.

Harry's voice broke through the roaring barrier encasing her ears.

"You're making a mistake, Hermione."

Then she sighed. A great, deep sigh that quaked through her lungs. It sounded as disparaging and dry as it felt, and she could sense that Harry and Ron heard it the same way as well.

She laughed without humor.

"Well, then it wouldn't be the first time, would it, Harry?"

oooo

Hermione worked with her professors to squeeze in the remainder of her exams into those three days she'd planned. She'd have to be there early in the morning, right after breakfast until late into the evening, but it wasn't as if she had much else to do, anyhow. She was far too busy prepping herself when she could, balancing facts and theories in her head, trying to tip the scales of fate and justice to her favor in consideration of her studies. Things could only look up, now, right? After all, when one was thrown down the dark well and discovered its cold and dank bottom, one could only look upwards towards the light, in something called desperation and hope. Or a Mayday, perhaps, with a flare gun – which she thought was best suited.

Ron still nagged her after that day, had even gotten the joint efforts of Ginny and Seamus, who then tagged along Neville. Harry was always nodding his head enthusiastically with Ron when he tried to convince her or force her by magically locking her door ("How can you go if you can't get your things, Hermione? Oh, looks like you'll be staying, then!") before she magically opened it with a swish of her wand and strode inside, slamming it in his face.

She appreciated their efforts, she did. It showed her how much Ron and Harry and the rest of her friends wanted her to be there with them on Graduation day. But it was her right, wasn't it? And they were _trespassing_!

Had it not been out of sincerity (with a bit of the genetic Weasley mischief), it would have been unpardonable. However, no matter how horribly she'd sniped at them that day in the corridor, she couldn't bring herself to spark that flame again. It was the least she could do, since, she had to admit it – she had been something of a prick.

She was rather proud of herself since she'd been clean of Malfoy-caused tears for over a week now, but even that pride hung listlessly in her chest. She didn't pay much mind to it now that she was busy every single moment, but sometimes it did catch up to her. Eventually. And then she'd be right where she'd started, hurting for something obscure and unfathomable to her even in the beginning. Because she'd been deceived, all right. Hermione Granger had been had – and how funny was this – by the only person who could easily rival her for the top spot in the academic history of Hogwarts.

Nevertheless, by the end of Day One, ignoring the fact that Hermione Granger was so exhausted and mentally ransacked, she'd gone through three days' worth of testing that day, and another the next. She was feeling particularly antsy about it, too. Though she loved school with almost every living fiber inside her, lately it'd transformed into a two-sided sort of love. Suddenly, she couldn't wait to be finished with school although she was still rather overwhelmed by the feeling. She thought she'd be in school forever, and it'd seemed that way for a while. But now it was all coming to an end, and while she could smile about it every time the thought flittered across, she found her chest hurting for some reason too heavy to articulate at the same time.

But she reckoned she'd get used to it in no time. After all, she'd see Harry and Ron again, certainly. She'd even probably pop by the school when she was feeling especially nostalgic. She just supposed it was the feeling of being a student she would miss. Because for her, it had always been entangled with working for something more, something greater. And one day, she'd have already achieved that.

Where was she to go then?

Though the spine-jerking question gave her chills she didn't like, she pressed through Day Three (and the final day) of testing. But as she sat there, her fingers sore and the quill indented into her palm, looking over her exam and holding in her relieved sigh until she was most certainly sure she'd gotten everything correct, something garbled and unpleasant began to trickle from inside of her.

It made her freeze up for a second, her body tensing and she began to reconsider her decision. But her mind caught up to her and shoved her back in place, and a shaky smile slowly formed on her lips as she looked up, eyes weary.

"It's all over," she whispered to herself, and for more reasons than the fact that she was feeling rather wimpy, she'd wanted to cry. In joy, in relief, in sadness – just what, she didn't know. But there was that terrible thing mashed inside her again, intruding in her gladness, and she couldn't make it go away.

It made her want to hex herself.

And as she walked out of that door and smiled at a few Ravenclaws she recognized from her class, she didn't feel what she thought she'd feel: release.

oooo

"So, you're all packed then, I s'ppose?" said Ron glumly as he, Ginny and Harry walked into her room for her farewell meeting. All of them looked particularly grim, and Hermione looked earnestly at them, deciding that it wasn't fair they were all doing the guilt trick so she wouldn't go. "I still don't understand why we couldn't have held this meeting in the common room. The rest of the Gryffindors should know; it's only fair. After all, you are their Head Girl. Pride and joy and all," he mumbled as he looked sourly at her trunk.

"Oh, you three, don't look so dismal," she told them as she continued to sort through her parchments, neatly stacking them and organizing them by subject. "I know you're trying to make me feel guilty, and it isn't working."

"Well, you've got a heart of ice then," said Ginny, sitting on her plush bed with her hands folded on her lap. She looked the saddest of them all. "Why are you going, Hermione? Has your grandmum left some money in her will for you? Because, other than that, I daresay I think Ronald's right—"

"I'm going because I owe it to her," Hermione interrupted, although she had to blunt her tone so it wouldn't come out so harsh. She sighed heavily, weary of all their questions. Their endless interrogation and suspicion was tiresome. "She's my grandmum. She helped pay for my school tuition, you know. She was the only one we told about Hogwarts and about me being a witch and she was thrilled. She hadn't even talked about dragging me to church and doing an exorcism. Do you know how rare it is to get a reaction like that?"

Harry nodded as he stood right beside Hermione's dresser, although rather stiffly. He was eyeing her with a dark look, and Hermione couldn't look at him for too long without getting shivers. God, it seemed as if he was going to literally pounce at her. She could smell his distrust a mile away.

"But why keep it a secret?" asked Harry, his voice serious.

"I thought it'd be… best. There's no one else I need to bother with the news of my early leave, right? They have eyes. They'll notice on their own if they want to," said Hermione, gently gathering all of her quills.

"Selfish," Ron murmured. Then his eyes brightened. "Now I know why!" he exclaimed, smacking his thigh. "I bet someone clocked you on the head. Because you've got to be mad out of your wits if you're leaving right in the middle of Peeve's Twelve Acts of Professor Nuisances. I heard he's going for Filch next, since he's his favorite." He grinned, pudding on his teeth. "Merlin, that's going to be good."

"Oh yeah, real mad," said Ginny, rolling her eyes.

"So… does Malfoy know?"

Everyone tensed in the room. Hermione felt as if someone had just shot a paralyzing bind at her, her heart suddenly thumping in irregular beats. Pain squeaked from every twitching nerve at the mention of his name.

In disbelief, her head whipped around to see it had been Harry who had spoken the question aloud. He was looking at her with brave eyes, not the least bit embarrassed or fazed.

He was giving her an intense look that caused the temperature of the whole room to drop a few degrees as Ginny had gone almost as white as Hermione, and Ron seemed baffled and even enraged.

"Pardon?" sputtered Hermione, flushing with anger.

"_No_! Of course he doesn't know!" said Ron, his blue eyes flashing. "I mean, why would he? If the rest of the Gryffindors don't get a clue in, then why should he? He's not _special_!"

Ginny tried to calm him down, but was looking at Hermione with concerned eyes. "He's Head Boy, Ron."

Ron's freckled face crumpled. "Oh, yeah. I forgot."

"So does he know?" asked Harry, this time firmer.

"I… I don't know," Hermione said, honestly not knowing. She started to panic. She didn't want him to know. He'd just think that she was running away from him! That she was weak! That she'd let him get to her and now she was dashing off because she couldn't take it!

And Hermione Granger was _so_ not weak!

"Probably not. _I_ haven't told him," she said, suddenly spilling all of her quills on her desktop, a quiet clatter flustering the air, standing up, feeling her anger start to bubble inside her again. She started to pace, gritting her teeth. "But there's always _Dumbledore_…"

"Why would it be such a big deal if Malfoy knew? He's just—" said Ginny, trying to reason it out.

"He's _Malfoy_," said Hermione, her voice shaky but deep with bottled rage. "Why _should_ he know? He isn't special. If Gryffindor House doesn't get to know, then why should he? He _isn't special_."

"Amen!" interjected Ron.

Ginny looked nervously to Harry, then started to pull Ron's arm. "Hermione, we'll say our goodbyes tomorrow, all right? Seems like you've still got some packing to do and we shouldn't be bothering you until you're all done. Tomorrow morning," she said in a sunny voice. "We'll wake up extra early. Me and Ron. Just so we could bid you a good goodbye."

"Why do I have to go? She seems perfectly all right. I'll stay with Harry," Ron argued, trying to pull his arm away.

"Because I need some help with my homework," said Ginny through her teeth, pulling him along. "Now, _come on_."

Ron began to tell her that he was completely useless when it came to coursework, and why did she even have coursework during exams, was it Snape, why couldn't she just ask Hermione, who was (more insultingly than not) The Brain – but she managed to drag him out by fiercely pinching him on the arm and speaking in a sharp tone exactly like Mrs. Weasley's. Thus, leaving her…

… with Harry.

She merely stood still for a while, looking at him with a guarded yet confused and frightened expression, not knowing what it was he was going to tell her. Did he know? He had to, right – since he had so obviously and coldly put her on the spot in front of Ginny and Ron? But even in her barrage of questions, she realized she hated him a little for that. Just who did he think he was? Just because he was the Hero did he think that he could just do that to anyone, anywhere, anytime?

Then she turned away, busying herself with her quills again, a sharp twinge in her chest. "I think it'd be best if you'd follow Ginny and Ron. I've still got some errands to run."

"What happened, Hermione? What _really_ happened?" Harry demanded. "I've had people lie to me all my life, and I'm not going to let you do the same to me too. What did Malfoy _do_ to you?"

"He didn't do anything!" she bit out, turning around and looking at him with a glare. She almost felt like crying; she felt the tears trying to rip through, she felt the crushing feeling inside her hot lungs. "He – it's…" She sighed, running her hands through her hair. Her eyes burned but she stood her ground. She would _not_ cry over him. Not now. Not ever. "It's done, all right? It's over." She turned around again, gathering her quills. She winced as she felt one particularly sharp point prick a tender part of her palm. She watched as a drop of blood blossomed from the ridges of her pink skin.

She said it again, this time to herself. She wanted to rob it of its painful impact, but the more she said it the more it seemed to hurt. "It's over."

She waited for Harry to say something, to tell her his long awaited "I Told You So" or scold her or just say _anything_. Something mean. Something condescending. Tell her that she deserved what she got. That she deserved being broken by a Malfoy.

But he didn't say anything. Instead she felt him, heard the silent rustle of his clothes and footsteps as he walked to her door and out of her room without a single word.

oooo

Later on that night, Hermione was rechecking her trunk and room to see if she had missed anything. She was just stuffing in an extra _Hogwarts: A History (Special Edition)_ that had fallen behind her desk when she heard something behind her door. She froze for a minute, trying to figure out what it was. It got quieter. Then she heard a big clamor, making her bones jump. Curious and alarmed, she grabbed her wand, swallowing hard as she neared her door. Instantly she thought that it might be Draco since it was coming from the door that led to the commons, but she furiously shook it away. Snape was right. Why on earth would he look at her after that night? Why would _she_ want to look at him after that night?

She finally stepped towards her door, and tightly gripping her wand, reached out and slowly twisted the doorknob. Then she heard the click of release as she opened it, only revealing an empty common room. She sighed in relief, but felt that bruise on her heart begin to faintly sting again.

Then she looked down as she heard the familiar noise. Her eyes widened, her mouth dropping open as she watched the sight laid before her feet. She dropped her wand, kneeling before the cage and box of owl feed, her eyes taking in a weary-looking Guinevere and her owlets. The baby owls were in the cage with their mother, but Hermione noticed that it was a new one – silver and newly polished, indeed much bigger. But as a shaky smile trembled across Hermione's face as she greeted her owl hullo, she saw her big sad orbs staring back at her. She was shocked at the look in her eyes – heartbreak.

And the worst part was: she knew that if owls could cry, Guinevere would have probably drowned all of her owlets by now.

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**Please Review!**

**Post-A/N:** Eh, not one of my best chapters, but just a note – Hermione doesn't know that Snape's a spy in this fic, just that Dumbledore trusts him. Sorry, I know it was a bit iffy.


	38. These Are The Fables

Basketcase

By attica

Disclaimer: What else is there to say? J.K. owns all; I only own the plot. Chapter title borrowed from band The New Pornographers, who I am (sadly) not affiliated with in any way.

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**THE END IS HERE!** Yes, you read that right. After this I go on hiatus before starting on the sequel! Will be taking that break to continue with Holy Names, but hopefully all you loyal readers will be following up on Draco and Hermione on the Basketcase's sequel! **Though, I must ask you this to prevent severe confusion: please READ THIS CHAPTER VERY CLOSELY! **There's a twist somewhere along the end and at first I thought it wasn't that subtle, but even my beta missed it!

Speaking of my beta, I would like to thank **Jojo, **who has been the best beta a girl can ask for and who has helped me more than anyone this year (it's taken me more than a whole year to write this fic!). An **ETERNAL** thanks to the beautiful **REVIEWERS AND READERS **who have had the stamina to make it this far! Really, I'd send you all Thank You cards if I could. I love you all!

**And so, rightfully as it should be:** this chapter is dedicated to all of my readers, reviewers, my beta, and my friends. You all know who you are. ;-)

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**These Are The Fables**

Draco couldn't blame her, really. Seeing the Dark Mark on his own arm had been one of his greatest fears that haunted him every time his forked-tongued father had flashed his own before his eyes, smirking proudly. As if it had been something to take pride in – it only signified the official recruiting of a brain-dead fool, everyone knew that. Of course it scared the hell out of him too. Even though it had just all been this sick ploy to somehow get rid of her, it stung every time he thought of that night. Seeing that hideous tattoo on his own skin, like a stamp that proclaimed HYPOCRITICAL BASTARD all over his body had been close to death itself. But not even that could compare to the feeling of seeing her cry.

Nothing could compare to the feeling of being the one to _make_ her cry.

He didn't even think there was a word that could embody the crushing emotion he felt when he saw her. It was like someone had beaten him ruthlessly, inside-out. His mouth became dry and his mind was suddenly awash from the swell of memories and feelings that had tided within him. That was why he couldn't look at her. It hurt too much, and Malfoys knew loads about hurt and pain (financial, mental, physical) so that wasn't something to be taken lightly. At all.

Because Draco had always been a strong boy. He'd beaten up a fair few as a toddler before his mother had tried to discipline him and then his father had taught him hexes and curses so he could fight people that way instead. Then at the mere age of eight, he'd had private lessons on the Dark Arts from Lucius, explaining to Draco that it was going to be his future. Lucius had made it such a big deal that he was teaching him all that hocus-pocus, like it was a pony or something (Draco owned five stallions, so ponies were nothing), and got so frustrated that he hexed Draco himself sometimes. That was how Draco came to know how to conceal his scars and his pain, and also how he came to hate his father.

Of course, that was only one of the many various reasons why he hated twitchy-lip Lucius. There were loads more, but Draco planned to write a novel about that later on.

Point was: he hadn't many weaknesses. He kept everyone at an arm's length, and that was his secret weapon. His icy approach prevented anyone from getting close to him, ergo him never getting close to anyone. But even then as a little boy, he knew "impossible" was never really a permanent word in life. How? His father had said that it was "impossible" his Uncle Alistaire hadn't an interest in the female species, because that's why the female species were made – to entertain men. But a few weeks later, Draco found out that his uncle was really having an affair with his butler, Charly, and really _hadn't_ an interest in women. It was then that the word "impossible" was made worthless, and also when he had realized (about time, too) that his father was a complete idiot.

Every person had their weakness, and defeat was never "impossible" because even the word impossible was impossible. Lucius had his greed and idiocy and feminine hair, Harry Potter had Voldemort, Voldemort had Harry Potter and Dumbledore, and Draco Malfoy…

Draco Malfoy had Hermione Granger.

Hermione Granger was his weakness.

Why? God knows. For many reasons, maybe. Or maybe just one sole reason. He didn't know. But she just was. Just like the Weasley clan was poor, she just _was_.

Draco frowned.

"… It'll be best if we carry it off then. But first we have to insure no witnesses will be present that day, or else it'll get messy." Severus Snape's voice sharpened. "Draco? Are you listening?" he barked.

"I stopped listening six years ago, what makes you think I'll start now?" Draco snapped, his eyes flashing. He glowered intently at him before standing up, walking over to his wide window. He tried to remember just what it was that Granger liked about looking out windows, but before he could exactly recall the reason, he stopped himself. He felt that familiar burst of pain again, this time stronger, and his eyes narrowed at the night sky.

Snape impatiently sighed. He wanted to smack some sense into him. "For heaven's sake, boy. Stop pining, you idiot."

"I am _not_ pining," Draco ground through his jaw. "I do _not_ pine, and make no mistake about that in the near future." Draco's glower intensified; he could see the reflection of his Head of House scowling at him from the glass of the window.

"You aren't a bad liar, that's for certain," drawled Snape. "At least your father spared you there. However, that Granger is an entirely different matter. How do you suppose the Dark Lord hasn't caught on yet? Hermione Granger, fairly short-tempered when you strike the right nerve, she'd almost go willingly if the Dark Lord were to —"

Before he knew it, Draco had turned around and drawn his wand, his molten eyes dark and fierce. "Don't you finish that sentence," he threatened. "Don't you _dare_."

"A bit touchy, are we?" said Snape, his lip twitching with distaste. His eyes narrowed at Draco's wand. "Sensitivity is such a revolting trait." He paused, meeting Draco's eyes with his swampy orbs, the gold of the light reflecting from the dark surface of them. "If you must know, it was necessary. What did you expect? That I would just sit back and wait until you finally stopped being a coward and end things between you? You were being selfish. You were wasting time, not to mention your energy. But now that it's over, you can now focus on the more important matters at hand." He scowled, his sallow face twisting into a dissatisfied expression. "Although now I see that my intentions were in vain."

Draco said nothing, only glowering at him.

"I did it for your own good."

Seeing that Snape was waiting for a reply, Draco only called him a very foul name followed by many other very foul things.

"Begrudge me all you like. You're still to carry out your orders," said Severus Snape, irked by his student's impetuous attitude. After Draco's only response to him was only walking towards the door and leaving, managing to give the doorframe a good rattle, he sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing his temples. "Teenagers," he muttered.

oooo

Draco was only walking down the hall, incensed but minding his own business and occasionally imagining how Severus Snape would look without a head, when he was unexpectedly pinned against the wall by an unusually strong force.

Alas, here he was. Draco should have known he'd make an appearance sooner or later. Strong force Harry Potter. Harry Potter had always had this Hero mentality, after all. The Defender of just about anyone who supported him and his wretched scar. So why hadn't he seen this coming? Why hadn't he seen him attacking an unsuspecting Draco Malfoy in an empty corridor?

Because he wasn't a bloody seer, and he hated Divination, that was why.

He pinned Draco against the wall by his collar, his fingers digging into his throat. Draco tried to wrench free from his grasp, but it was absolutely ridiculous. Potter holding him up against a wall? Draco knew for a fact that he was much taller than Harry Potter! Potter'd never been this strong before, either – had he started taking extra servings of spinach?

"Potter, what in the bloody hell—" he choked out, trying to jerk his hand away.

"I _knew_ you were scum," Harry Potter seethed, his emerald eyes dark and glinting like dirtied sea glass. "I _knew_ it the moment I met you. But how could you play her heart like that? How could you treat her that way after she'd given you a chance?" His grip tightened, his fingers jabbing into Draco's gorge. "How could you treat her like nothing?"

Draco kept a straight face, glowering at him although his throat was getting mangled harder and harder by the minute. He kicked him – hard – but Potter had either gotten himself castrated or Draco's jokes had really been true all along: there really was _nothing there_.

"Let go of me," Draco snarled.

"How could you do it?" Harry asked him furiously. "How could you hurt her? Are you really such a heartless arsehole that you didn't care?"

Draco was getting very angry. Suddenly his chest burned and he had a feeling it was only partially because he was getting choked the hell out of by an annoying Gryffindor with a steel grip. He saw a flash of her brown eyes again, glossy from her tears and broken from his words. Something tender crumpled and collapsed inside of him to the hollow, bubbling pit of his stomach. He tasted something sour in his mouth, his muscles tightly contracting, as his jaw clamped down on itself.

Then, as Draco felt his temper start to spark, a fever of rage creeping all over his body, a torch at the end of the hall combusted.

Harry did not even do so much as flinch.

"I have an idea," Draco growled, "why don't you go and fuck yourself, Potter? Please," he spat in his face. "For all our sakes."

He ignored him. "Stay away from her. Don't even look at her, do you understand me? Stay the hell away from her, Malfoy. I'm warning you."

Then, as quickly as he came, he went. He released Draco from his stranglehold and gave him one last menacing look, the lenses of his glasses flashing a blinding golden-orange from catching the light of the flambeaux. Then he disappeared down the hall, his silhouette smearing away with the darkness, as if he had only been a part of Draco's imagination and some illusion his spinning, dazed mind had conjured up.

Draco stared after him, swallowing hard, his neck sore and aching. He wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that he wasn't heartless at all out of mere spite, but the teeming words never made it past his lips. Once upon a time maybe they would have believed it. He'd even had Hermione Granger believing it like it was a fact – for a while. But then he'd told her that he was, in fact, heartless. Shouted it at her, more like. And she believed him.

Either he was surrounded by devastatingly gullible people or actions meant even more diddlysquat than words. So what if he'd lied? So what if he'd spent the past seventeen years of his existence living a life already framed in the Wall of Winners in hell? Would anyone truly believe him now if he'd said that he _did_ have a heart?

After all, he was clever enough to know their gullibility stopped there.

oooo

Hermione, waiting in the Gryffindor common room for her final goodbye with her friends, was surprised to watch as the portrait hole opened to reveal a merry Albus Dumbledore stepping through. He shone radiantly today, dressed in different hues of faint gold that made him almost shimmer and sparkle, his hat almost getting snagged at the entrance. He only laughed goodheartedly as he approached her, and beaming beatifically, Hermione stood as well.

"Headmaster," Hermione happily greeted him. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, what else, Miss Granger?" he smiled. "I am here to bid one of my best students adieu." Then he looked around, as if mystified. "And where are Mister Potter and Mister Weasley? I thought they'd be awake by now."

Hermione laughed. "No, they aren't. After seven years, I've gotten used to their habits of oversleeping."

"How true, Miss Granger." He sighed. "I remember reading the last issue of the Hogwarts Harmonium the other day – which was most excellent, by the way – and I must tell you it was a wise decision to appoint Miss Weasley as head of the newspaper for the next school year. She is quite the clever girl."

He continued to smile at her, jolly and jubilant. But his smile faltered a bit as she noticed a sad gleam in his eye. "However, newspaper business aside, I think you must know how disappointed I am to see you leaving so early. It is unfortunate to have a family member die, indeed, but I only wish the timing were another. I was looking forward to your speech," he sincerely whispered to her. "You were one of the brightest students to ever walk into this school, did you know? Oh, well of course you did," he chuckled. "You'd be blind not to."

Hermione looked up at him, feeling the snags of guilt and sadness latch onto her. She couldn't help but think this was cruelly unjust. Everyone seemed intent on playing the Guilt card. Nevertheless, she couldn't exactly blame them. It was so last minute, not to mention fairly unexpected.

"Thank you, Professor," she politely replied, feeling the powerful beats of her heart as she stared into his wrinkly face. He'd aged more, indeed. The past seven years had been quite a doozy, no doubt maybe even the most eventful in the entire history of Hogwarts, and though Dumbledore had always been somewhat childish in spirit, it had done irreparable damage to him as well. As she looked into his eyes then, she saw a deep and internal exhaustion.

In that moment, she couldn't believe she was leaving, either. Somehow, she didn't want to. A sudden urge became her to furiously grasp onto the reins of her childhood, of Hogwarts, of laughter, of joy – of tribulations and trials that somehow, some way, always resulted into something great and hopeful. What was she to feel once she stepped out of this place? The place she considered a second home for so long? Leaving her friends behind so adamantly, her stride so determined on abandoning pain only to be walking straight into another?

It almost seemed foolish as she thought about it now. But, just like everything else, there were two sides to it. Like a coin. Two sides. Like tails to heads, one side had to lose – one side had to face down. Now, she didn't know which would benefit whom, but even with the tugging knots in her stomach she knew it was something she had to do. As copious as her ill feelings were, as innocuous as her intentions were from the very beginning… Draco Malfoy was the sole paradox of her life. She wasn't running from him. She was running towards something else and just happened to be running from him as well. If it could be summed up entirely by one word, it would be this: convenience. Simple as that.

She didn't need the debauched rivalry betwixt her and Snape, fighting over Malfoy. She didn't need the depravity they'd smilingly succeeded in showing her. She wanted to leave this year an amiable person with an amiable life, disregarding heartache and injustice. She was going back to her pernickety ways, and she was going to be happy.

She was going to be happy.

Then a hoot surprised them all. Dumbledore's eyes lit up with surprise as they both looked down to see Guinevere in her cage with her owlets. Hermione suddenly had an idea.

"Are those yours, Miss Granger?" inquired Dumbledore, taking quite an interest. "How charming!"

"Yes, they are," she answered. "But I haven't got much room for them, so I was wondering if you'd like a chick or two," she offered. "Please. You'd only be doing me a vast favor."

Dumbledore's smile widened. "Why, certainly. Fawkes is always in need of a companion. It gets quite lonely in my office, you know."

"Splendid!" said Hermione. She fetched out two owlets while muttering an apology to Guinevere, handing them to Dumbledore, who cradled them in his hands pleasantly. Hermione conjured a small box on the side table for him to take them in. Then he looked up at her, cleared his throat, and set aside the softly hooting owlets in the box.

"Back to the matter of business, Miss Granger," said Dumbledore politely. "I wanted to give you something. No student should leave this school without it." He then pulled a scroll from his sleeve like a magic trick, handing it to Hermione.

Hermione, curious, took it and began to unroll it. She sucked in a breath as her eyes widened, taking in the crisp parchment in her hands: her diploma. She observed the neat and elegant strokes of her name, of her achievements, of the stamps of all of the rings of the professors. Her heart stopped in light of her delight. "Oh, Headmaster," she breathed. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Ah, but that is not all," he joyfully told her. Hermione looked up in bewilderment, wondering what else there could possibly be, but beamed with shining eyes as Dumbledore retrieved a golden medal, holding it up for her to see, glinting brightly in the light. "For you, Miss Granger. It is an honor and a privilege to have watched you grow over the years." He smiled with sparkling blue eyes. "May I?"

Hermione nodded, dumbfounded, as she gathered her hair with her hands rather dazedly and he put it on her, resting it gently around her neck. Hermione looked down at it, the warm weight of it on her chest, and felt her eyes start to burn.

"Now that looks about right," said a familiar voice. Hermione and Dumbledore both looked up to see Ron and Harry descending the stone stairs from the boy's dormitory and Ginny crossing the common room. Ginny ran to her, almost knocking her over in a fierce bear hug.

"Oh, Hermione!" she exclaimed as Hermione tried to keep herself from falling. Ginny Weasley was indeed fairly strong. She held her tightly, closing her eyes and smiling and frowning at the same time. There was a dry, painful lump in her throat and heaviness on her heart. "I'm going to miss you! Who else is going to keep my brother in line for these last three and a half weeks? Oh, you daft girl!" Ginny cried, digging her head into Hermione's shoulder. "Why are you being so stupid and leaving early?"

"You're going to be fine, Ginny," said Hermione. "I have a feeling you can keep your brother in line just fine. And – don't call me daft."

Ginny pulled back, laughing, wiping her eyes. "This is ridiculous, Hermione. It's only three and a half weeks, right? It isn't that long. Sure, with exams it'll seem like ages, but it'll be quick, right?"

"Quicker than you know," Hermione comforted her. Hermione then handed Ginny a cage with three of Guinevere's owlets. "For you," Hermione explained. "A going away present."

Ginny squealed her thanks, immediately reaching in and petting them.

"Liar," Ron suddenly grumped, and they all turned to look at him. He had a sour look on his freckled face, his long ginger hair disheveled and tousled from sleep. " 'Quicker than you know'?" he repeated, as if it was a stupid thing to say. His face resumed in seriousness. "Liar, liar, pants on bloody fire."

Dumbledore looked amused. Harry rolled his eyes. Ginny scoffed.

"Are you going to just stand there and insult me or are you going to come over here so I could give you a hug?" Hermione said laughingly. "I don't have much time, you know."

Grumbling, Ron walked towards her and they embraced. Hermione couldn't believe how tall he'd gotten – she almost couldn't even reach his shoulders anymore. He held her firmly, still mumbling names under his breath.

"Ron, don't be so childish," she managed to say, despite the overwhelming clout of unhappiness sweeping over her now.

"Only if you stop being so bossy," he retorted, yet it wasn't toned like his usual witticism. She could hear sadness in his voice, even a bit of bitterness.

Chuckling, Hermione drew back. She looked into his oceanic eyes, the bluest she'd ever seen. "I'm going to miss you, you know."

Ron flushed a bright red as he looked at her, and Hermione smiled.

"Er – ditto, Hermione," he answered clumsily. "Just… just take care of yourself, all right?"

Suddenly, there was a commotion that made them all jump in surprise.

Out of the portrait hole stumbled a frantic Professor McGonagall, looking panicked and breathing rather haphazardly. Her glasses were askew and her robes were tangled around her ankles. "Oh!" she said as she saw Hermione. "There you are, Miss Granger! Thank Goodness!"

"Professor—" Hermione began, before her Head of House walked straight at her and gathered her into a bone-crushing hug. Hermione's eyes widened even more as she felt some of her bones crack – how on earth had her professor gotten so strong?

"You're a foolish girl, you are," her professor told her. She sounded as if she was on the verge of tears. "But you are the single brightest witch I have ever seen in the whole of my teaching years. I almost despise your grandmum for her terrible timing – you'd've been my pride and joy at the graduation ceremony."

"Um, thank you, Professor," said Hermione, endeared by what she had said. "Really, thank you."

Sniffling, she drew back and fixed her glasses, smiling at her and standing beside Dumbledore where he comfortingly patted her on the shoulder. Then he offered her his handkerchief. Nodding, she took it and raised her square spectacles as she dabbed her eyes.

Hermione, looking apologetic to her Head of House, turned her head and felt an uneasy feeling overcome her as her gaze came upon Harry. He looked stern at first, as if angry with her, but his face softened and a boyish grin took place of his concerned frown. He looked bashful in his pajamas, and Hermione shot him a trembling grin to mirror his own.

He stepped forward, and before Hermione could reach out to him, he had already flattened her against him with the single most meaningful and dense hug she had ever had – surpassing Ron's, Ginny's, and even Professor McGonagall's. Her surprise quickly passed, however, as she dug her face into his chest and wrapped her arms around him, the tears teeming from her soul brutally beating her through and through.

There was something about the way he held her. So protectively, so firmly, so tightly and closely that it made her sigh. She knew it was just the resulting outcome of these seven years. He hadn't been too fond of her in the beginning – nobody had been, really – but something had changed as they got older. Besides getting older, experiencing the normal adolescent alterations, maturing… their strictly mutual feelings intensified. It got stronger. Brash.

Almost promising.

She needn't say anything to him, she knew that. She knew it very well. But she did, anyway, still trying to keep back her tears. She felt it was something that needed to be said, though what she was sorry for, which error, she didn't know. Her fingers curled against the warm fabric of his shirt, his body rigid and so real that it almost pained her. In a flash all of her faults returned to her. They were sucked back into her soul and inexorably began warring.

She let out a shuddering sigh.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

But he only smiled at her as they pulled back, in that boyish way he always did, and Hermione was once again shocked for the umpteenth time that day as he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall gave each other amused looks.

oooo

Hermione was walking through the empty corridor, her footsteps echoing as her shoes lightly tapped against the shiny marble floors. She looked down and tried to memorize the sound, rhythmic to her ears, yet sometimes uneven in depth and volume, and smiled sadly as she saw her blurry reflection. As she looked down her hair almost hid her face, but she could see her smile. It was warped amongst the sea of gleaming polished floor. For a second there, it had even turned upside down, and rippled away from the light.

She looked behind her to make sure her trunk was still following her, with a sleeping Guinevere in tow, before raising her hands and carefully lifting her medal from her neck. Her neck relieved from its glorious weight, she set it on her palm. It was smooth and warm to her skin, her nerves buzzing with bliss and delight. But as she observed it, brushing her fingers against the engraved image of the Hogwarts crest, savoring its flawless surface, she sighed. She continued to look at it, in a trance, as she remembered what had happened in the common room.

Her heart sagged noticeably when she thought of it. Her cheek burned. She couldn't even shake off the niggling shivers when she thought of when Harry had pressed his lips to her cheek.

It was odd. Unusual. Unexpected.

Different.

But she couldn't forget, most of all, the looks on their faces as she levitated her trunk and announced her final goodbye. Her Head of House had started to tear up again, and Hermione remembered feeling slightly envious of her tears.

Dumbledore had shaken her hand, nice and firm, winking at her. Ron and Harry had stood stoically like stone figures, watching her with sad eyes but forced smiles. Their faces were pale. Even Ron, who had blushed like a beet when she had told him she'd miss him.

Then they'd waved.

"We'll see you soon, Hermione."

She tried to take comfort that it was only three and a half weeks. She couldn't be missing out on too many events. Besides, she needed to go home. For her grandmum. For herself. As much as Hogwarts held a part of her heart, her heart needed some repairing, too. And all of that had to be done by herself, for herself. She could never accomplish such a feat if she still saw hook-nosed Snape or Malfoy every day. They'd only delay the process.

At the thought, she felt herself fill with a miserable melancholy, even a bit of nostalgia. Just then, she stopped in her step as her eyes roamed around and she realized just which hall she was in.

"I left my Transfiguration book!" she remembered frantically saying to Ginny. But instead of feeling wistful in her memories, pleased to remember such a small account in her life, there was an abrupt and poignant anchor to her chest. Suddenly, she felt sick. His face constructed in her view again, and her battling scruples were roused.

All of a sudden, she heard a hoot behind her, unmistakably Guinevere.

And, as if on cue, the door of a classroom opened, just right ahead. Her breath stopped and she slowed to a halt as she recognized the tall, slender figure that walked out, radiating with superiority, oblivious to her presence. His expensive leather shoes gleamed immaculately, lightly squeaking against the floor for a mere second. His uniform, absent of his robes, was faultlessly done just as the rest of him looked. There was not a single button awry, not a single silver hair uncombed. He continued to walk on, looking down and mumbling something under his breath in a familiar way that sent tremulous pangs through her chest, until he looked up.

His face instantly paled, freezing in his spot, a look of pure surprise on his face. He was only a small distance from her now. Far enough for her to know he couldn't read the shards of pain in her eyes, but near enough that the misinterpreted and muffled aches from the last few days, purposely and determinedly buried underneath her exams and packing duties, became an actuality again. Her lungs lost all of its functioning reflexes; her head dizzyingly overcome with longing and a hard-struck, iron-fisted blow that rattled her very bones. Her mouth dried up – her tongue crumbled away into dust that blocked up her closing throat.

Her eyes took him in, and she began to hurt all over again. That same nonsensical, undefeatable pain. God, how she hated it.

Her heart that she had been trying to, piece by piece, set back together from all of the devastating little shards and bits – shattered all over again.

It was a monster of a feeling, cruelly perpetual. But as broken as her heart was, she felt it jump with what seemed like newfound life at the sight of him.

They simply looked at each other, unmoving, each reeling in their own feelings, barricaded and tackled by such a rush of emotions, turbulent and suffocating and passionate, and time froze. The seconds had died away in silence, the world stopped spinning. Just for a moment. A depraved, exalted, painful moment.

Draco felt himself shiver. Tingles poured from his body, heat and chills colliding against each other in the very midst of him. It was almost impossible to take her in, this sight of her, this spectacle – because at that second, frighteningly still in time, everything that seemed tangible and palpable around them dissolved into millions of microscopic fragments. And then, suddenly, nothing else existed except them. Except her. Except him. Except them.

He felt as if he hadn't seen her in ages. He hadn't remembered her being this beautiful before. The smooth creaminess of her skin, the charming but fading freckles dotting her nose, the stunning depth of her eyes. But it wasn't just the look about her. It was what she stood for. Innocence, goodness, kindness, intelligence. The way she glowed with her civility, courageous defiance that Draco had never appreciated before – until this year, in this very corridor. It was funny, he reckoned, how fate had brought them running right into each other in this very hall. Where it all started.

They were back where it all had started.

But as he gazed into her eyes, he felt an impact of stumbling reality. Fearless, true. He couldn't move because he was afraid of what he'd do. He'd worked so hard to get this far – he'd worked so hard to drive her away. He couldn't throw it all away, not for one last bout of physical contact. It would be foolish, indeed foolish. But weren't men always foolish?

An inkling of memory slipped back to him, weightless but instantaneously crushing.

_Do you love me?_

No, he didn't love her. He couldn't. How could he? He was destined to be something horrible, something awful – how could some someone birthed with a cold heart possibly love? Even after years and years of ruthless training to be exactly what they wanted him to be? It was impossible. He was impossible.

Just then, he felt a mind-pinching twinge.

_Impossible_.

Impossible was impossible.

But he didn't deserve to love her. He didn't deserve to have her in that way – in any way. She was safe, remember? She was untouchable now. He couldn't drag her down with him. He couldn't do that. He would save her.

But.

The abrupt realization was a ruthless punch in the gut, and if he hadn't already lost his breath, he would have then. There were the antagonizing thoughts, the thoughts of refusal and denial swarming like an angry colony, but even they were weak and flimsy compared to the strong feeling pounding through his veins and striving in his Dark Magic-infested body. He was suddenly bathed in clarity, a growing tumor of bright light blossoming within him, and it was frightening. But it was something new and strange but so potent – as if it was fated. He didn't know why, or how. He didn't even know if he believed in fate. But he just got the sense of it, clear and uninterrupted.

It was rather easy, really. Once he got over the bolt from the blue. Suddenly he knew it like he knew his name. As if he'd known it all this time. So he loved her. So it wasn't impossible. End of story.

But, really, it wasn't the end of the story. He couldn't stand it. Realizing it before wouldn't have done him any good and would've only caused him more trouble, but why now? Why not ten years from now? Why not on his deathbed (however soon that may be)? He'd still be dying with the knowledge that he had loved someone so much that he hated himself for it. Living with it was the problem. That was always the problem. But why now?

Suddenly, his gaze flickered to behind her, where there was a faint hooting. He spotted her owl and her trunk, levitating behind her. Confusion struck him. Was she leaving? Where was she going? She couldn't be leaving yet – there was still about three weeks until the end of school! What had happened? Why hadn't she told him?

He didn't know how long they stood there, looking at each other. It seemed idiotic, but the mere notion of its stupidity was overtaken by his new revelations of impossible but possible love, of un-Malfoy love, and bewilderment at why she was all packed up. Somehow, he didn't want to believe it, that she was the one leaving him. He'd always taken comfort in knowing the fact that _he_ would be the one leaving her. But, no. It wasn't fated that way. He was going to have to watch her walk away unless he turned his back and walked away, too.

A rumbling, imminent tide overwhelmed him then. Something was bubbling up his throat. He was going to tell her. Why not? She was leaving already – for what reason, he didn't know, and he didn't want to know. But what could he possibly lose now? What could possibly be lost from those three words? Undoubtedly he wouldn't gain any more wounds. Past his stoicism, past his adamant claims – he was already hurting as much as one possibly could.

It would be the perfect goodbye. Simple, yet with masses of complexity threaded in the seams. But would that matter? His pride, his thickly established pride, seemed eons away when he was with her. Shouldn't he take advantage of its leave? Didn't she deserve at least a bite of the truth? Or would she even believe him? Had he already done too much to ever catch even a hint of her favor?

But it seemed that she had suddenly sensed urgency. Her eyes, almost vulnerable for that whole time they had looked at each other in vague but drowning honesty, strengthened and were masked by her obstinacy. She looked away and began to walk towards him, and soon – past him.

His mouth was dry, almost reaching out to grab her arm.

"Granger—"

"Mister Malfoy?"

Draco blinked. He looked behind him and glanced at the elderly man approaching him, dressed in layers of azure, his silver beard trailing down the front of his chest. His half-moon spectacles winked at him, the glass reflecting from imperceptible light. He heard the motion of his footsteps and robes, sweeping against the marble.

Draco looked back before him, where Hermione Granger had just been about to pass him. But as his mind was cleared of the nostalgic, almost pitilessly painful daze, his memories ebbing away like stolen cobwebs on his fingertips and clinging to his wrists, she was gone.

Not a single trace of her. Just the bitter, bile and metallic taste of the words that had just been right at the tip of his tongue – the same ones that he still hadn't been able to swallow down yet. But he remembered all too clearly that in a solitary second too fast they had plunged and burrowed right back inside him again, stunning him to a cold silence. It was then he had succumbed into the shell of a coward, closing his eyes as the single moment to make everything right again slipped away from him just as easily it had come.

Draco Malfoy smirked stonily as he recalled the movement-induced breeze he'd felt when she'd finally passed him, not uttering a single vowel, and the heat radiating from her that he could have sworn was made only and especially for him to feel.

Albus Dumbledore stopped beside him, a thoughtful look on his face.

"Ah, this corridor. Any special memories concerning it?"

Draco regained his composure, baring an impassive face. "No," he drawled, looking at his former headmaster. "None worth remembering."

"Oh, what a shame," said Dumbledore. "What a shame indeed. I, myself, had some very special ones in this very hall." He smiled jubilantly, but Draco could see from the corner of his eye that the old man was giving him a knowing look, a gleam in his eye. "Precisely how long has it been, Mister Malfoy? Standing in this hall?"

"A year," Draco replied. "Precisely a year."

"Ah, yes," Albus sighed. "One entire year. Seems long, doesn't it? Yet, at the same time, it seems as if no time has passed at all. Don't you agree?"

Draco looked away from the hall, diverting his gaze to the softly lit torches. He was getting quite annoyed with the old coot's tireless implications. "A year is a year, Professor," he answered. "Nothing can undo it."

Dumbledore smiled. "Mister Malfoy, that is, without a doubt, a clever answer. But, might I say, you are very young in the ways of the world." He gave one last look at the empty corridor before motioning for them to move on. "Classes are soon to start," he said. "You must be on your way."

Nodding, even scowling a bit as he had not lost any bit of the distaste he held for Albus Dumbledore since his years here at Hogwarts, he turned and began to walk away.

"Oh, and Mister Malfoy?" Dumbledore called out, as Draco halted. "Do try to be gentle, won't you? I think Mister Potter may be a little overwhelmed. The element of surprise is not always a good one."

Albus watched with sparkling eyes as the young Malfoy resumed walking. He noticed he still had the same powerful stride – reminding him exactly of his father, the notorious Lucius Malfoy. But the boy hadn't aged at all, not even in the ways of his mind. Yes, now there was more of a depth to him than his impish childhood schemes, but there was still work to be done. But though Lucius and Draco Malfoy were alike in the matters of pride and swagger, they were quite different, as well. For one thing, Draco had something Lucius did not.

Albus smiled happily to himself. "Oh, what a blessed reunion," he sighed as he walked down the hall, whistling.

oooo

Draco wasn't quite familiar with Muggle streets, but he felt immediately out of place as he Apparated to a back alley. The soil was damp beneath his soles, and the air smelt of fresh rain. Funny, it hadn't been raining at all in the wizarding world. Trying to shrug off the aftereffects of Apparating, he lightly brushed himself off, scowled at the entrance of the alley, and began heading towards the light to the Muggle world.

Draco Malfoy had one objective today, and it was urgency that had forced him to come to these desperate measures. Unfortunately, their plans had been drastically altered. They needed Harry Potter informed and involved as quickly as they could. Now, they couldn't very well owl him because there was a possibility of owls being intercepted, and there was the Floo network but even that alternative was risky. They had to talk to Potter in person.

Draco grumbled under his breath. He just didn't understand why it had to be _him_ who had to do it. He was sure Snape had materialized that last minute "business trip" just to avoid being chosen, but all he needed was proof. His mother couldn't very well do it because she was, well, his mother. She was an elegant woman, she was, the perfect queen of wealth, but her exposure to the outside world was trivial. It would only draw attention. Attention of which, especially now, was definitely not needed.

Dumbledore was another matter. Yes, he was busy. Yes, he was still headmaster of one of the most prominent wizarding schools in the whole of the world. But wasn't Potter his most favorite person in the whole universe? He didn't understand why he hadn't broken a hipbone trying to volunteer himself for the task. And certainly Potter would take joy in the old man's visit – unlike, let's say, _Draco Malfoy's_, childhood enemy, eternal enemy. Didn't they see it was a haphazardly flawed plan? Potter would hex him the moment he saw him on his doorstep – he was willing to bet his entire vault in Gringott's on it. After all, it was something of a surprise. No one could keep in touch with the git, so it was drop by spur of the moment or not drop by at all. Draco had enthusiastically opted for not drop by at all, but he was outnumbered. By a scarecrow, an ice queen, and a mad old man. Really, what were the chances? He was the only sane one in the group, and they'd gone and sent him to the wolves. He should have known they'd team up on him.

It truly was unfair, really.

Now he was wandering around in Muggle London, dodging the suspicious characters and getting cigarette butts blindly thrown at him by conspicuous purple-haired people with numerous facial piercings and hideous boots. He sneered in disgust as some elderly women eyed him from a bench, whistling at him, asking if he wanted a good time tonight.

Draco scoffed, looking around. As if he'd ever want a good time with _her_. She'd be too drugged up to even remember what to do.

He reached in his pocket and retrieved a crumpled piece of paper, reading it again as if he'd forgotten. He looked above him at the towering buildings, spying the rusting fire escapes. There was indistinct shouting pouring from an open window, and he had to dodge a pair of shoes being flung down below.

He squinted at the address on the parchment.

Then he looked up again.

Yes, it had to be true. He had to be in hell.

He kept walking until he saw a rather decent-looking bookstore. Shivering a bit from the chilly disposition of Muggle London, he walked in and felt pleasant tingles travel across his skin from the heated room. His eyes roamed around, intrigued by the countless selections of books. There were indeed many.

"Darling? Hu-llo?" said a singsong voice. "Can I help you, pumpkin?"

Draco whirled around, surprised by the voice. He found a redheaded woman a decade his senior waving at him at the front of the store. Then she smiled at him, pleased at what she was seeing. "Oh yeah, indeed," she muttered to herself as Draco neared her. "This must be my lucky day." He stopped in front of her as she was grinning toothily at him, and Draco shuddered. She reminded him of the Weasleys' mother. "So what can I do for you, you handsome lad?" she winked, chewing her gum loudly.

Draco sent her a scowl. "I was just looking for this address," he said, distancing himself a bit from her, handing her the paper.

She peered at it, bringing it closer to her face. Then she nodded, smiling widely. "Oh yeah, this is quite near. It's the building right next to Madigan's Pub. It's downright massive – you can't miss it."

And before she could say anymore, Draco had snatched the paper from her and walked out of the store, hearing the faint jingle of the bell as he quickly headed towards Madigan's Pub – wherever that was.

He found it within minutes, staring up at the rather obscene sign it sported, lined with neon light wiring. Cursing to himself as he had to evade some rather drunk women nearing him with devilish lips and sloppily donned dresses, he ducked into the entrance of the Cheshire Fox flats. There he stumbled into an old woman who was just getting her post.

"Pardon, where—"

"Wrong flat, dear," she said, not even looking up. "You want the one next to this one. A few paces to the left." And then she turned away, heading up the stairs.

Nonplussed, Draco shook his confusion away and headed out again, doing just what the old woman had said. Paces to the left, go inside – ah, there it was. Number three, in polished black letter, just right up two sets of stairs and down an extensive hall. It really was odd in this area. He'd been to a few Muggle flats before (strictly for business, and, no, not that sort if business) and this was certainly the most bewildering one of the lot. Reminded him of why he wasn't too fond of Muggles. Not too fond at all.

Draco stood before the bare door, carefully looking around the hall. It was completely empty. Determined and anxious, as well as bracing himself for any possible hex-hurdling individuals, he balled his hand and knocked, loud and clear.

He heard shuffling inside. Footsteps. Then there were voices – two voices, a female and a male. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but Draco found himself looking at the door with an amused look on his face.

"So, Potter," he mumbled. "Finally got yourself someone blind, deaf, and brain-dead, have you? What a pity. A woman of such standards, having to degrade herself to—"

"Who is it?" he heard the female voice call out.

Draco then froze, feeling tingles shimmy up his spine. He concentrated on the voice. He recognized that voice. He was sure he did.

"Who is it?" it called out again.

Draco narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out why it sounded so familiar. Something about it sent enormous amounts of blood pumping to his head at an extraordinary rate. It shot electric adrenalin straight to his heart, causing it to ram against his chest, and his breathing eased from calm and shallow to rough and ragged.

So, instead of answering, Draco knocked. Persistently.

Then, suddenly, the door opened. It opened with a swift pull, drawing in air, and revealed to him the owner of the familiar female voice. Her expression was clearly drawn over with irritation at first, but her mouth fell open and the color drained from her face once she saw him.

Draco stared at her with wide eyes, completely stunned, every drop of blood in his body freezing over. His heart stopped.

Indistinctly he heard glass shattering somewhere.

Enlarged chestnut eyes gazed into his own, echoed by a mass of curly hair. Her pink lips parted, moist. Fading freckles, almost gone now, on her nose.

Dear God.

It was Hermione Granger.

**End.**

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**A/N: All right, so her being "the voice" isn't exactly shocking, but please, be kind and REVIEW! **I know the ending was kind of quick (yikes, I KNOW!), but if any of you would like to know more about this chapter or the sequel, you can head on to my profile and click** 'homepage.' **:-) If you send me any questions in your reviews, I may just answer them there.**  
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